


A Witcher, Once I Loved

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Friends to Lovers, Jaskier fancies Geralt and Geralt is not altogether that slow to realize it, Jaskier is Geralt's first male partner, Jaskier's pretty bad ballads, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Tagged all the sex acts but it's not PWP, This turned out soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Geralt of Rivia never expected to have a traveling companion, let alone a lute-toting bardling he had the misfortune of meeting in a tavern. And yet he comes to a strange arrangement of companionship with Jaskier, who sings of his exploits. But the road is long and lonely, and sometimes even the most resilient Witcher's solitude needs to be broken. Only Geralt has never been with a man. Luckily, Jaskier is a ready teacher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 159
Kudos: 513





	1. Prologue

_A lot of hope in a one man tent  
_ _There's no room for innocence_

“Keep the Streets Empty for Me,” Fever Ray

####  **Prologue**

When the north winds had blown through Kaer Morhen, a fierce howl pierced the winter night and startled a young Geralt of Rivia from his meditation. The trials of mind and body any boy faced to become a Witcher were soothed in those deep hours when thoughts were calmed and wounds made to heal through potion and mutagen. The haunting keens of gusts through the fortress were to this day—one many years later, when Kaer Morhen had long since been abandoned—the only sounds that could tear Geralt from his meditation. That was, at least, what he had presumed, until he settled at the fireside in his camp with a lute-toting bardling he had had the misfortune of keeping company with for the past day.

He was called Jaskier, and he couldn’t have seen more than twenty years all told. That must have seemed a great deal to him, but to Geralt it was an eyeblink in the decades of his own life. He had been in the business of slaying monsters across the Continent for twice that long when Jaskier was still suckling at his mother’s teat. And now the upstart singer had claimed to have the intention of joining him on his journey for the sake of writing epics of his adventures. Incredibly enough, the debacle with the elves and Torque hadn’t put him off in the least.

Jaskier claimed his company and his songs would bolster Geralt’s reputation, but Geralt would have bet gold that it was only to have a sword by his side in his travels between inns and courts. And Geralt did _not_ mean to play nursemaid to a cocksure bard whose velvet doublet would be spoiled by even a cough of the road’s dust. He had a living to make, not to mention a single horse and single bedroll. From what he could tell, Jaskier had nothing but the clothes on his back and the lute he carried in a leather case over his shoulder.

However, on the night of their release from the elves’ caves, they found themselves still too far from town to part ways as the sky darkened and the moon hid behind thick gatherings of cloud. Geralt resigned himself to making a fire—which he did alone—and resting until morning. He did not trust Jaskier as far as he could throw him, and so sleep was out of the question. It would be meditation instead.

Kneeling, and with his eyes closed, he began to clear his mind and slip into half wakefulness. He did it easily after years of practice, leaving the bard to fend for himself. Until, that was, when he was pulled from his meditation by the dulcet plucking of lute strings and a soft male voice. No battles or screaming children or drunken brawls nearby could distract him; in all his life, the only thing had been the wind. Until now, when Jaskier was singing quietly into the forest around them.

The words didn’t matter much to Geralt; it was the sound of the voice alone that eased through to his conscious mind, curled around it, and pulled. At once the meditative calm faded away, and Geralt was left with his knees digging into the soft loam and staring across the fire at the fallen tree where Jaskier was perched. Ironically, the bard’s eyes were closed and he seemed perfectly content as he strummed and sang. His voice wasn’t pure in the strictest sense, but had a strong timbre and sureness of tone. A high note sliding into a deeper one was like fingers down the back of Geralt’s neck, though not unpleasantly so.

“What is that?” he asked.

Jaskier opened his eyes to see him, and though he stopped singing, he continued to pluck the strings of his lute. “An old ballad from Verden. Do you fancy love songs? I do. I can do another if you’d prefer. I know all the classics: ‘She of Golden Hair,’ ‘The Knight of Underthren.’ There are some of the bawdier ones, too, if you—”

“Don’t like music,” said Geralt. “You’re just attracting attention to us. If you’re not careful, someone will slit your singer’s throat.”

Jaskier didn’t look perturbed. He said, “The fire is drawing just as much attention, if not more. Smoke can be seen for leagues. My songs, no matter how lovely, can’t do that.” He trilled a three-note tune cleverly. “What do you request? I’m afraid I don’t know anything about Witchers. But that’s the point of my coming along with you, isn’t it?” He laughed brightly. “I’m to _write_ all the Witchers’ tunes.”

“You’re _not_ coming,” Geralt groused, and not for the first time. As expected, he was given the brush-off without so much as a frightened blink. Witchers were supposed to be fearsome, inhuman mutants who would be as likely to eat children as they were to kill monsters. And yet Jaskier had never once looked at him with trepidation. For a man who was accustomed to frightening anyone he passed by, it was unsettling—and Geralt was a creature of calm. He had cultivated control of himself and his surroundings for his entire life, and to have that disturbed did not please him.

The uncanny way Jaskier’s singing had cut into his mind should have been the first sign that he was going to force change into Geralt’s life, but just then it did not set in so clearly. Instead, Geralt continued to listen to him play and talk. And oh, how Jaskier could talk.

“If this kind of thing with the elves is routine for you,” he said, “I’ll have enough material to write a hundred songs, each one their own masterpiece. Won’t it be fine to have your name solidified in history?”

“What history do you make, bard?” Geralt rolled onto this haunches and picked up a stick to poke at the logs of the fire. “You’re not a king to start wars or end them.”

“No,” said Jaskier, “but how are those kings’ legacies remembered? In the _songs_ , Witcher. In the songs!”

Geralt sighed, unimpressed. “I can’t be slowed down. Dawdling in taverns for coin isn’t how I survive.”

“Of course not. I would never expect you to change your ways because I’m here to document your exploits.” He shifted seamlessly to another melody, this one more soothing than the last. “The point is to tell the truth of you, not build up the tales that have done your kind such a disservice over the past centuries. You need to spin your stories better. I can do that for you.”

“So you’ve said.” Sparks flew up from the fire where Geralt’s poking had unseated a log; it hit the embers below it. “But I’ll not have it. Tomorrow you go back where you came from and I go my own way.”

“We’ll see about that, Sir Witcher,” said Jaskier with a crooked smile. He held Geralt’s gaze for a few moments, determined as ever. Geralt was struck by that focused look; he saw the courage under the pluck, the excitement around the teasing. Even bards could yearn for adventure, he supposed. At Geralt’s silence, he began to sing again.

“Are you going to yowl all night?” said Geralt.

Jaskier affected affront. “My voice is not so offensive as that! And neither is my playing. Let it lull you to sleep.” He tipped his head to the side, considering. “Unless Witchers don’t sleep.”

Geralt snorted derisively, but replied, “We do when we’re not badgered by bardlings. Do you not sleep?”

“I do,” said Jaskier, “but I don’t actually have a blanket, and I certainly have no desire to sleep in the dirt, so I reasoned I would play the whole night through.”

It should have been the second sign—so obvious looking back—that Geralt begrudgingly went to Roach’s saddle where it hung on a tree’s limb and unlashed his bedroll. Without a word, he tossed it to Jaskier, who hastily yanked his lute out of the way of its trajectory.

“You could have done some real damage there,” he said. “This instrument is my livelihood. How would you like it if I bent your silver sword?”

“Try it,” said Geralt. “I’d like to see the attempt.”

Jaskier frowned at him, but then turned his eyes down to where they bedroll lay at his feet. “Is this for me?”

Geralt grunted.

“Is that a reply?” asked Jaskier. “A yes or a no? You might have to enunciate better for me, Sir Witcher.”

“Don’t call me that,” Geralt warned, pinning him with a glare.

Jaskier exhaled heavily through his pert nose. “My sincerest apologies. Do you prefer your given name?”

Geralt was sitting back down on the ground beside the campfire, annoyance simmering. “Don’t care.”

“But you do,” Jaskier said. “You don’t like ‘Sir Witcher.’ Is it just Geralt, then?”

It should have been the third sign that Geralt was arrested by the sound of his name from Jaskier’s lips. He said it no differently than anyone else had—no trick of accent or flourishing pronunciation—but it hit Geralt somewhere in the center of his chest.

“Fine,” Geralt said curtly, through a closed throat. “Now take the fucking bedroll and stop talking.” When Jaskier strummed another chord, he added, “And playing. And singing, too. Sleep, bardling.”

Jaskier only then relinquished the lute, tucking it safely back into its case. He unfurled Geralt’s bedroll and laid it down on the opposite side of the fire. “Where will you sleep?” he asked as he nestled under the blanket, his fine velvet doublet folded on the tree trunk he had vacated.

“In the dirt,” said Geralt.

Jaskier didn’t immediately reply—a rare gift—but after a moment, he said, “I’m glad to have met you, Geralt. We’ll do great things together.” He yawned hugely. “Tomorrow.” Turning onto his side with his arm for a pillow, he went to rest.

It should have been the fourth sign that Geralt didn’t immediately return to meditation. Instead, he watched the flames play over Jaskier’s cheek as he slept. When he did finally close his eyes, he should have recognized the fifth sign: that he was already waiting for the silence to again be broken by Jaskier’s voice.


	2. One

####  **One**

“What manner of company does a Witcher most often seek?”

The question was posed from the ground below where Geralt sat on Roach’s back. Jaskier had his hand by the mare’s bit, easily keeping pace with her steady walk as he prattled. Most times he could carry both sides of a conversation himself—or at least didn’t need replies to continue on—but Geralt suspected that this was a query that he actually wanted an answer to.

“Don’t like company,” Geralt said gruffly, even as he stroked gentle fingers through Roach’s mane. It wanted for a combing, which he would certainly be doing that night when they stopped to make camp.

Jaskier had complained of the _rustic_ accommodation when they had first started traveling together, but he’d grown more accustomed to them over the past few months and no longer offered many protests. He had managed to get ahold of some gear as well: a bedroll (too delicate and light), changes of clothes (too colorful), and boots (“fashionable” but sturdy enough to endure long treks across the Continent). Somehow, despite how bad of an idea it was, after he had woken on that second day together after the elves, Geralt had let him stay.

True to his word, he’d regaled countless taverns with heroic tales of the White Wolf, and Geralt had seen more work come his way. He wasn’t about to express any kind of gratitude, but Jaskier didn’t seem like he needed to hear the thanks anyway. He was kept in good food and ale and audiences when they were in town and good meat and fires and excitement when they were on the road. And his appetite for that hadn’t been whetted in weeks, or, even now, months. Geralt would not have expected that from a dandy court bard.

To Jaskier, or to anyone else who might be listening, Geralt would say his presence wasn’t intolerable as long as he stayed out of the way of the swords when Geralt was working. The truth of it, though, was that he chased away the solitude of a Witcher’s uncomfortable life. Geralt was used to hard fights in bogs or crypts or mountain caves, oftentimes stumbling back to his camp bleeding from one or more places. Where he would have once only found a sleepy Roach waiting for him, there was now Jaskier, with his effusive demands to know what had happened even while he bustled to Geralt’s pack and drew out the exact potion Geralt needed. More than once, he had been the one to pour it into Geralt’s mouth.

He had never been squeamish about the gore Geralt faced or about the wounds he earned in his fights. Jaskier had learned the rudiments of field dressing, too, and Geralt had to acknowledge that his cuts and bites and slashes healed faster when Jaskier’s fingers tied the bandages around them. Somewhere between the elves’ mountains and this desolate stretch of road in Temeria, Geralt had come to not only accept his company, but to be glad for it.

And every time Jaskier used his name, that place at Geralt’s center would tighten and burn.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said admonishingly. He peered up at him, blinking large blue eyes, the lashes long and girlish. “Surely you don’t mean that. We all need company at times: friends, family, lovers. And it was that last one I was thinking of when I asked the question. I should have been more clear.” Tapping Geralt’s ankle, he said, “Sometimes you take a moment to understand my meaning. Maybe that’s just the poet in me, always couching things in metaphor.”

Geralt said, “That wasn’t a metaphor.”

Jaskier shrugged, his stride uninterrupted. “All the same, I likely should have asked outright. Do Witchers have many lovers? You see, I’d like to write a ballad of a lady who once loved a Witcher, only to have him outlive her. What do you think?”

“Which question do you actually want answered? There were at least two there, not counting the first one about company.”

“Ah, yes, well… What about the first? What kind of lovers do Witchers prefer?”

Geralt glowered down at the back of Jaskier’s head. “We don’t all have the same tastes. Some fancy blond hair and green eyes, others want brown eyes and dark hair. Fat, thin, tall, short. Witchers are the same as anyone in who they want to fuck.”

“No need to get testy,” said Jaskier. “It wasn’t to say that I didn’t think that was the case, but maybe there was a trend.”

“There isn’t,” Geralt said. He once might have thought that would put an end to the conversation, but he knew Jaskier well enough now to anticipate when it was just the beginning of one of their _talks_.

“Well, then,” Jaskier said, pondering aloud, “if you were the Witcher in my song, what kind of lover would you wish to have?”

It had been months since Geralt had seen a woman who wasn’t terrified by some creature and covered in cow shit, but then again, they’d been traveling in the country. When he had his choice of whores—“ladies of the night,” as Jaskier put it—he would take the quietest ones who would go about their duties and then leave him to sleep; beds were hard to come by as a Witcher. He had no particular preference other than that they were good at what they did and would suffer a Witcher between their legs. He told Jaskier as much.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” the bard said. “Must you always insist on pretending you have no imagination? I know for a fact, Geralt of Rivia, that you can conjure up rich tapestries in your mind, even if they are not so elegant as mine. Tell me of a _dream_ lady. Your ideal.”

Geralt had no interest in this game and was on the cusp of refusing to answer at all, but watching Jaskier’s springy gait, he didn’t want to take all of the wind out of the bard’s sails. His imagination was truly nothing impressive, but he forced himself to at least attempt to think of a woman he wanted to bed.

“She’d have to be of middling height,” he began. “Not so tiny as to make me lift her up to embrace her, but not so tall as to make me look up.”

“Fat chance of that,” Jaskier muttered.

Geralt chose to ignore him, continuing on: “The color of her skin doesn’t matter, but if I’m to pick something right now, I’ll say she’s fair. And”—he looked once again down at Jaskier’s tousled head—“brown of hair.”

“Right, good,” said Jaskier. “I’m taking notes in my mind. Go on. What color are her eyes?”

“Blue.” He got a scoff, and so added, “Like high summer sky.”

Jaskier stepped away from Roach’s head to draw his lute out from its case. He began to strum it as they plodded on down the road. He sang idly, “Lady, go not by, for thine eyes are as fair as a high summer sky.” Grinning up at Geralt, he asked, “Like the sound of that?”

“Hm,” was Geralt’s noncommittal reply.

“Ever the critic,” said Jaskier. He played a little more with the melody, humming lines to himself. He did that often, Geralt had learned, and didn’t always like to be interrupted when he was building a song. Geralt had no objections to staying quiet. Roach snorted and shook her head, making the curb chain jangle.

“What’s that, old girl?” Jaskier said. “You don’t think that’s the one? Well, how about this?” He played a complicated run on the lute’s strings, building up to a crescendo until one of the strings broke on a sour note. “Oh, hells,” Jaskier grumbled. “Now I’ll have to restring it later.”

Tugging on Roach’s reins, Geralt pulled her to a halt. “Here’s a good as place as any to stop for the night.” He pointed to a stand of trees some twenty feet from the road. “There’s shelter there and wood for a fire.”

“Spectacular!” said Jaskier. “My feet were feeling a bit sore.” He patted Roach’s shoulder. “You too, girl?” The horse stamped her foreleg and blew out a string of snot onto the bard’s tunic. He deflated. “Yes, I see.”

As Geralt dismounted, Jaskier was doing his best to clean off the mucus with his handkerchief, which was not particularly clean in the first place. It _had_ been several weeks since they had had their clothes laundered. Seemingly satisfied, he tucked the scrap of linen back into his trousers and looked expectantly toward the patch of forest.

“Shall we, then?” he asked, smiling toothily.

Geralt could not understand his ever-present good humor. Still, he gestured toward the trees and said, “After you, bardling.”

They had a routine they’d figured out over their time together, where Geralt unsaddled and rubbed Roach down while Jaskier perused the ground for dry firewood and kindling. He was getting good at lighting the fires, though if it was wet enough, Geralt still ignited them with magic. It was rare they had to freeze out in the wilds, though there were some nights when they couldn’t have fires for the sake of guarding their location. On those days, they would both wake up blue in the fingers and toes, Jaskier bouncing up and down to generate heat again.

When Geralt was finished with Roach, he took a sling and rocks from his pack to hunt for their dinner. He wasn’t keen on a bow, but he could hit a rabbit or squirrel with his sling at thirty paces. As Jaskier came back into the area they had laid claim to for their camp with his arms filled with branches, Geralt held up the sling by way of explanation and went out into the meadow to look for prey.

“Bring a fat one for dinner!” Jaskier called, a wish for good luck in the hunt. Geralt wasn’t overly reliant on luck, but he’d have thought it strange if he’d gone off seeking meat without having heard that. It was yet another way Jaskier had insinuated himself into Geralt’s day-to-day. Where it should have vexed him, it no longer did. The bard was good company.

Geralt caught himself on that: _company_. Jaskier had asked what kind he preferred, maybe both as companions and as lovers. In both cases it was not the simpering nobles or the rustic country farmers. It was not mages, and it wasn’t other Witchers. If he had to say he wanted to be in anyone’s particular company just then, it was Jaskier himself. Geralt didn’t ignored the fact that the ideal lover he’d described had been nothing more than a female simulacrum. That was mostly due to Geralt’s laziness in actually thinking up a dream woman, but he didn’t strictly object to Jaskier’s looks, either.

Grunting, he reasoned he’d been too long without a tumble, if he was thinking of Jaskier’s _pretty face._ He had no objections to men bedding other men, or women bedding other women for that matter, but he himself had never craved or invited a man to his bed. He had no interest in stroking any other cock than his own—which he got to do precious little of when Jaskier was in camp with him. Tightening his fingers around the sling in his hand, he resolved to take them into a town where they could find some women. After all, Jaskier, too, had only ever bragged of his conquests among the ladies of the court.

Steering his focus back to their dinner, Geralt put notions of company from his mind.

* * *

He returned with a brace of rabbits over his shoulder some hour later, or so said the setting of the sun. He followed the scent of woodsmoke, but also the lilting melody of Jaskier’s latest song. It was likely the ballad of Geralt’s lady, which would turn out to be melancholy if Jaskier continued on in the vein of it as it sounded just then. Geralt, as unaffected as he played at being, was, from time to time, moved by those sorrowful songs. Not that he would ever tell Jaskier that. He’d rather throw himself into a bog full of face-sucking monsters and let them take him to his death.

As he walked into camp, Jaskier looked up, his face brightening at the sight of him or the rabbits or both. “Another successful hunt, eh?” he said. “Well done, brave Witcher. Those creatures stood no chance against you.”

Geralt took the rabbits directly to a nearby stump to skin and clean them with the sharp knife he kept in his boot. As he worked, Jaskier talked.

“I should like to debut this new ballad in the Termerian court. I need a few days to refine it, of course, but by the time we get there, I should have it ready. With the death of the lady and her last words to her Witcher beloved, there won’t be a dry eye in the house.” He sighed, leaning his arm over the body of his lute. “Imagine the tears of the ladies, and the lords, too. I’ll be lauded and encores will be begged of me. You’ll come to see me play, of course, Geralt.”

There was the clench in the middle of his chest yet again.

“If I don’t have better things to be doing,” he replied coolly as he pulled the skin from one of the rabbits.

“It would mean a great deal to me if you came,” said Jaskier, that sweetness of an earnest request in his voice. “It’s nice to know there’s at least one person who’ll like the songs in the audience.”

“Hm. Who says I like them?”

“You do! You’ve told me before.”

Geralt kept his eyes on the rabbits, though he could feel Jaskier staring at his back. It wasn’t kind to tease him, but Geralt had never been an overly kind man. “Have I?” he asked. He heard the stomping of frustrated footsteps behind him, but didn’t expect Jaskier to grab him so forcefully by the shoulder and turn him around. As he came to face the bard, he saw genuine concern in his face.

“Surely you haven’t been putting me on all this time,” Jaskier said. “You wouldn’t lie to me. You enjoy my music, my songs of your adventures. You do, don’t you?” He wet his lips, clearly nervous. “Geralt?”

Again, the tightness and fire in his center.

His hands were bloody from skinning the rabbits, but Jaskier didn’t look askance at it; that was nothing out of the ordinary. The contrast between them was stark, however. Jaskier was in his purple and yellow jacket and matching trousers, all immaculate, save for the smear of horse snot across the buttons. Geralt, on the other hand, was turned out in leather and fur, both weathered from years spent outdoors. He was bloodied and Jaskier, it seemed, had just combed his hair and cleaned his hands. Seeing him standing there with true uncertainty in his face, Geralt couldn’t toy with him further.

“Of course I like them. They’re good songs, and this new one won’t be any different.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier, a relieved smile curving his lips. “That’s reassuring.” He shoved Geralt’s shoulder, though it didn’t much move. “You had me going for a time there. I should have known better, you rogue.”

“Hm.” Geralt went back to his gutting of the rabbits, saying, “Find me a good roasting stick and we’ll get these over the fire before dark.”

Jaskier scampered off to do as he was told, humming the somber tune of his ballad all the while.

* * *

Geralt never slept deeply, even when he did settle down for the night. He was always on alert, ears attuned to any ominous sound. Jaskier was less attentive by far, generally sleeping tucked into a ball on his side, likely to hold in the heat that his too-thin bedroll didn’t provide. Geralt had tried to warn him, but he hadn’t listened.

As they lay on opposite sides of the campfire that night, Geralt absently heard the crackling of the logs, which was familiar and soothing. The forest was quiet, save for the murmur of nocturnal creatures: owls and mice and the like. There was nothing to be alarmed about, and yet Geralt was unable to fully sink into sleep. Lying on his back with his hands folded over his chest, he looked up into a sky lightly speckled with stars, visible through the leaves of the trees above him. It wasn’t yet high summer, but the foliage had reappeared and with it came higher temperatures. He didn’t hate the cold, better weather did make traveling easier.

A snuffling noise from nearby caught his attention. He waited to see if it would come again, and it did—from Jaskier’s side of the fire. Geralt turned his head, squinting to where he could barely make out Jaskier’s hair at the top of his bedroll. The rest of his head was hidden under the blankets. He shifted, making yet another distressed kind of sound.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. There was no reply, so he continued: “Jaskier, are you all right?” The only answer was another muffled cry, almost frightened. Displeased, Geralt threw aside his blankets and stole in his stockingfeet over to where Jaskier was sleeping. He crouched at the bard’s side. He said his name again, putting a hand on where he thought his shoulder was. When again he didn’t wake, Geralt shook him lightly.

With a startled half-shout, Jaskier jerked his head up, wildly casting glances around himself.

“Easy,” said Geralt, as he might to a skittish horse. “You’re fine. Must have been dreaming.”

Jaskier was breathing hard, taking time to focus his eyes on Geralt. “Dreaming,” he said. “Right.” He blinked once or twice and then asked, “Did I wake you up?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Geralt told him. “Wasn’t sleeping anyway.” He withdrew his hand to allow Jaskier to sit up and rub his own face with the palms of both hands.

“I don’t remember what it was about,” Jaskier said. “Not monsters. But I was alone, I think. Very alone.” He ventured a look up at Geralt. “I’m glad I’m not.”

Geralt took a moment to study him: his sleepy expression and cheek marked with impressions of where he was lying on his arm. In the firelight it wasn’t possible to make out the color of his eyes, but the long lashes cast shadows under them. He appeared meek, small and uncertain, as if the big, bad forest would swallow him up. Struck by that, Geralt raised his hand to touch the side of his face with unlikely tenderness.

“I’m here,” he said. “You’ll be all right.”

Jaskier leaned into his touch, letting out a soft sigh. He brought his right hand up and curled the fingers around Geralt’s wrist. “I know,” he said. A watery smile appeared on his lips. “I might be able to get used to this kind of thing.”

“What thing?” asked Geralt.

Jaskier rubbed his thumb on the underside of Geralt’s wrist, where the skin was exposed by the edge of his sleeve. “You touching me. Aside from pulling me from a few cliff edges, you never have.”

Geralt’s stomach tightened, though it wasn’t with discomfort—more nerves, like he was on the edge of his own cliff, teetering on the cusp of something new and potentially exciting. He regarded Jaskier for another moment and then cupped his other cheek. “You _want_ me to touch you?”

“Oh, very much,” said Jaskier. “Very, very much, Geralt.”

The burn in the center of his chest was hotter than it ever had been, the constriction joining that in his belly. He ventured to ask, “How long have you wanted it?”

Jaskier’s long throat worked as he swallowed. “Since I saw you, maybe, in that tavern. When you told me the monsters in my songs weren’t real. You _are_ aware of how striking you are?”

“Hm. Mostly frightening.”

“Not to me,” Jaskier said softly. “What would you do if I kissed you?”

Geralt wasn’t certain, and he said as much.

Jaskier sat up taller, bringing himself closer to where Geralt was crouched. “As long as you’re not going to hit me, I’ll do it and you can tell me what you think.”

“I would never hit you, bardling,” said Geralt. He had thought that would have been obvious.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, “then hold still and let me…” He trailed off, moving in toward Geralt’s face. Geralt waited, unsure what to expect, even if he’d had many kisses in his life. Jaskier closed his eyes just before their mouths met.

There was nothing fundamentally different in the mechanics of the kiss: Jaskier’s lips were soft, if a little chapped, and the press of them was strong and sure. It would have felt much the same had Geralt been kissing a woman, and yet he felt the shortness of Jaskier’s hair as he slid a hand behind his head to hold him in place. Jaskier made a surprised noise, but leaned into the embrace, resting his free hand against Geralt’s chest.

The kiss remained closed-mouthed, but when Jaskier drew away, Geralt was sorry it had been; he would easily have taken more, had it been offered.

“Well,” said Jaskier, “what did you think?”

Geralt had never been a man of many words. He offered a simple, “Again,” and pulled Jaskier against him.

This time, the bard’s eagerness landed Geralt on his ass in the dirt, his legs tangled under Jaskier where he was crawling into Geralt’s lap. His arms came around Geralt’s neck as he kissed him deeply. Geralt was, to his surprise, the first one to open his mouth and venture to tongue Jaskier’s lips. A mumbled, “Oh, _yes_ ,” was spoken between them as Jaskier made way for Geralt to slip into his mouth. He tasted a bit stale, but it was to be expected after hours of sleep and gamy rabbit for dinner. Geralt didn’t care; he was too caught up in the warmth and silkiness of the inside of Jaskier’s mouth. It had been a long time since he had kissed anyone so well.

He held Jaskier around the back, a firm grip that kept him close. Jaskier’s fingers were laced behind Geralt’s head, under his hair. Occasionally, a finger would catch and pull a few strands. Geralt didn’t object; he kept hold of his bard and kept kissing him, until they were both wanting for breath.

“Have you had a man before?” Jaskier asked when they had parted.

“No,” Geralt replied. “Never thought I wanted one.”

Jaskier bit his lower lip, coy. “But you’ll have me.”

Geralt, hesitant, said, “That depends on what you mean by it. What about you do you want me to have?”

“I’d give you just about anything you asked for,” said Jaskier. “But tonight probably isn’t right for that. I don’t think you quite know exactly what I’d give.” Moving one hand down between them, he grasped between Geralt’s legs. “There is something, though, to start slow.”

Even if Geralt had had no particular desire to get his hand around another man’s cock, he didn’t have any compunction, he realized, about a man touching his. Or maybe it was just Jaskier. He didn’t have time to meditate on it just then because Jaskier’s clever musician’s fingers were already undoing the laces of his trousers.

“This is all right, yes?” the bard asked even as he continued on his quest, indeed ducking his head and pressing light, dry kisses to Geralt’s neck.

“It’s fine,” Geralt managed to say. Shakier: “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t, my dearest Witcher. I won’t.”

Freed of the barrier of his trouser flies, Geralt’s cock stood upright, interested in any caress. Jaskier was still close to him, the space between them limited, but he managed to take hold of Geralt and begin to stroke him purposefully. Geralt, lips pressed tight together, groaned.

“How I’ve imagined pulling that sound from you,” said Jaskier, nuzzling just under Geralt’s jaw. “And so many more. I’ll be so good to you, Geralt.”

Nearly gasped, Geralt said, “Say that again.”

“I’ll be good to you?” said Jaskier.

“The other bit. My name.”

Jaskier hummed as he kissed his temple. “Geralt, my fine Witcher.”

Feeling that like a kick to the heart, Geralt hauled Jaskier back up to kiss him. They clutched at each other desperately, as if they had been ready to burst from sheer want of the embrace. Geralt hadn’t expected that, and yet he could not deny it now. How he had denied it for so long, he wasn’t sure.

“Lie down,” Jaskier said after a time. Geralt could feel his heart beating strongly and see the flutter of his pulse point.

“In the dirt?” Geralt said.

Jaskier grumbled, “Just let me—” and he moved from Geralt’s lap to kneel on the forest floor. He pointed to the bedroll and all but ordered, “Lie down.”

Geralt was exposed with his cock out, but he managed to get onto his back. Jaskier shifted up to the level of his groin and started to push his trousers down over his hips. Geralt lifted himself up to allow it, though Jaskier stopped with them just at the tops of his thighs. Whatever he had planned apparently did not require them to be naked. Geralt was somewhat glad; he wasn’t certain he was prepared to jump straight to that.

Jaskier put his hand back around Geralt’s cock, but it wasn’t only that motion. Moments later, he was swooping down to take him into his mouth. The sound Geralt made was indecent.

This was far from the first time someone had pleasured him with their mouth, but Jaskier was a damn sight better at it than many of the others he’d been with in his many years. He could take Geralt deep, sizable as he was, though he was more attentive to the sensitive tip. Perhaps it was the fact that a man knew what felt good that he was better than women at the act. Not to disparage women, of course. But Geralt was far from thinking about any woman right then. His dream lady was banished for the reality of pretty Jaskier, who was so keen on sucking his cock.

Geralt put his hand in Jaskier’s hair, though he didn’t push him harshly down to take him deeper. He let Jaskier do as he wished, which was very, very good without guidance. Jaskier made small sounds of pleasure as he worked, his left hand resting on Geralt’s thigh. Geralt couldn’t see, but he liked to think that Jaskier’s cock was hard, too.

It didn’t take long for Geralt to rise to Jaskier’s attentions, though he warned him before he spilled onto Jaskier’s tongue. The bard did pull away, finishing Geralt with his hand and catching the spend before it could stain Geralt’s shirt. He produced the handkerchief he had used before and wiped his palm clean.

“What about you?” said Geralt as he sat up.

Jaskier glanced down at his groin, where it was obvious he was ready to be pleasured himself. He looked then to Geralt. “Do you want to, or would you prefer I took care of it myself?”

Geralt replied, “Don’t think I’d be any good with my mouth, but I could try my hands.”

Clearly sensing his uncertainty, Jaskier shook his head. “Another time. But stay there, will you? I’d like to look at you.”

Curious exactly why he wanted that, Geralt did as he was bid and remained lying on his back. Prone, he watched as Jaskier threw a leg over his, straddling him. He unlaced his own trousers and pulled out his cock. He wasn’t small by any means, though less girthy than was Geralt. The delicateness of him suited, Geralt thought.

“Apologies for the crudeness,” Jaskier said. He spat into his hand before wrapping it around his cock. Geralt took no issue with that; it was what he himself did when he was alone. He turned his eyes down to where Jaskier was stroking himself. His long fingers were fine around his length, and Geralt could appreciate the show of it all. Jaskier was, after all, a man who loved an audience. And of course, he started talking.

“When I saw you,” he said to Geralt, “it was like seeing a spirit, something out of legend. I love a good legend, and you were there for the taking. I _had_ to speak to you.” He made a little _mm_ noise in his throat. “You were so taciturn. Ever the stoic adventurer. You still are, mind you, but I know now that that’s not all there is to you. You have a softer side.”

Despite the passion of the moment, Geralt frowned up at him, and Jaskier laughed.

“Pretend as much as you want that it’s not there, but it is. You care about people, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt took a firm hold on Jaskier’s hips. “Don’t go putting that in your songs.”

Jaskier nodded gravely. “My word is my bond. I will not.”

“Good,” said Geralt. “Now quit fucking talking and take your pleasure.”

“ _Oh_ ,” said Jaskier. “Now that’s something I never thought I’d hear from you. But I’d like to hear it again someday. Maybe more than once. I could write—”

“ _Jaskier_!”

“Very well,” he grumbled, focusing his energy on his cock again.

Geralt watched him work in silence, and Jaskier thankfully kept his mouth shut. At least until he was near losing himself; then he tossed his head back and breathed heavily. He was startlingly captivating in the throes, and Geralt was held rapt. With a gasp, he spent into his free hand, managing to avoid spoiling Geralt’s clothes. Somehow, Geralt didn’t think he would have minded wearing the evidence of what they’d done. That was something he hadn’t expected in the least.

When Jaskier had recovered, he used the same handkerchief to wipe up. He looked disapprovingly at it before tossing it into the fire. “No salvaging that one, I’m afraid,” he said.

Oddly, Geralt found it funny and barked a laugh. Jaskier’s eyes widened, but Geralt drew him down to kiss him again. He went into it happily.

Lying on top of Geralt, Jaskier said, “If I told you I wanted to do this again, what would you say?”

It wasn’t difficult for Geralt to reply earnestly: “I would do it again. And...maybe more.” He swallowed, choosing the words carefully. “You might have to teach me.”

Jaskier grinned, kissing his brow. “I’m a very good teacher. If you want to learn, I’ll make that very good for you.”

“You said that before,” said Geralt. “That you’d be good to me.”

“Yes. You deserve as much and nothing less.”

Geralt met his eyes unabashedly. “There’s nothing good about Witchers.”

Jaskier said, “Maybe not all of them. But there are good things about you. More than bad ones, hard as it might be for you to believe.” He pressed a last kiss to Geralt’s cheek before getting up and setting his laces to rights. “We should sleep,” he said. A cocked eyebrow. “Would you like to come over to this side of the fire?”

“And share that sorry excuse for a bedroll?” Geralt scoff. “Not a chance in hell. You come to mine.”

Jaskier beamed. “As you wish.”

It was a tight fit under Geralt’s blankets, but Jaskier tucked himself against Geralt’s side and quickly drifted off. Geralt was awake for a while longer, listening to the night’s creatures, the fire, and Jaskier’s breathing. He held the bardling close as he finally closed his eyes and let sleep claim him.


	3. Two

####  **Two**

Geralt could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d woken up beside someone. As a boy he’d slept on a solitary pallet in Kaer Morhen and as a man he had no interest in allowing whores to share his bed. There were a few exceptions, but only when he was young and stupid. He didn’t sleep well with anyone beside him; he had his own interests to look out for and had no desire to guard anyone else while trying to snatch what limited rest he could.

And yet there was that morning, when he woke to Jaskier’s warm breath on his neck and an arm thrown over his stomach, fingers lax along his ribs. He lay still and uncertain for no small amount of time after he opened to his eyes. It was a weakly made trap: he couldn’t move for fear of disturbing Jaskier and facing what they’d done. Good sense said that the day’s light should shine harshly on what had happened, and Geralt was tense to imagine what he might say to the bard at the fireside as they made porridge for breakfast; but even knowing that it might have ruined their delicate camaraderie, he couldn’t regret it. For once he’d followed his basest instincts without fear of terrifying his lover. Jaskier was not afraid of him, never had been, and had clearly demonstrated in the night that he found many more redeeming qualities in Geralt than offensive ones. Or at least he had wanted to fuck a Witcher, and he’d done it. Geralt wondered if now he had had his fill and things would return to how they had been or if Jaskier would finally take his leave.

Geralt would be loath to see that happen, but the night before had been far too good and too long coming for Geralt to deny that he had enjoyed every minute and would gladly do it again given the chance. How to make that clear, though, was beyond him. He could say it plainly: “Let’s fuck again,” but he could already hear Jaskier’s admonishing noises at the crudeness. He knew Geralt didn’t mince words—when he uttered them at all—but Geralt was sure this was a situation that required more finesse than killing monsters in a bog.

Jaskier was still sound asleep as Geralt’s mind turned matters over and over, but soon the pressure in his bladder was enough to force him from his bedroll. He eased Jaskier’s arm away and slipped out into the chilly morning fog to relieve himself a good ten paces from the campsite. He had pulled on his boots, which made shoe-shaped depressions in the frosty grass. He always left few marks of having been anywhere after he and Jaskier camped, and these would burn away as soon as the sun broke the horizon.

Finished with his business, Geralt returned to camp to find Jaskier up, dressed, and about. He had stirred the fire’s embers into life again and put their battered pot over the flames, the water in it not yet warm enough to steam. Geralt paused for a moment to watch him industriously bustle from the fireside to where their bedrolls lay and set to rolling and tying them up. He always left the lashing of them to Roach’s saddle to Geralt. He had a healthy respect for the mare, never overstepping his bounds and getting on her bad side. She had a temper when the mood stuck her.

Only when Jaskier had finished with the bedrolls did he catch sight of Geralt, who was still frozen to the spot. He paused for the space of a heartbeat and then rose to his full height and, to Geralt’s immense relief, grinned a very familiar grin.

“Good morning,” he said. “Water’s on for porridge.”

“Mm,” said Geralt, striding into the camp and going to don his jerkin. He hastily laced it, his breath condensing around his fingers as they worked.

“Did you sleep well?” Jaskier asked, going again to the fire and crouching by it.

“Watching won’t make the water boil faster,” Geralt said.

“Tosh. I can surely will it to boil.”

Geralt grunted, but joined him across the fire. “Slept fine,” he admitted.

“Good,” said Jaskier. “I did, too. Though you’re warm enough that I could likely boil water _on_ you. I could have saved myself many frozen nights if I’d just shared your bedroll in the winters.” His nonchalance about it was startling, but not altogether unfathomable. He was indefatigable in his good humor when he set his mind to it.

“Witchers run warm,” Geralt told him. “Makes it easier to fight off poisons, or so they say. Seems true enough.”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his prominent chin. “I’ll have to work that into my ballad, I suppose. ‘His body burned as hot as my love for him.’ Something like that.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t like it?” said Jaskier, looking put out. “Well, it’s just a first go. I’ll refine it.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt said, pacifying.

Jaskier smiled at him radiantly. “That’s high praise, coming from you. Thank you, Geralt.”

If the potent reaction to Jaskier’s use of his name had struck him before, it did so now with unprecedented force, nearly pushing the air from his lungs. It must have shown in his face because Jaskier’s expression grew concerned, and he asked, “Are you unwell?”

“Fine,” Geralt said, a half-truth. He wasn’t in pain precisely, but his chest was full in a way he’d never experience before.

“You’re not,” said Jaskier, quickly coming to his side. He laid the back of his hand against Geralt’s forehead. “You’re hot here. But is that normal?”

Geralt pushed his arm away, unable to contend with his touch just then. “There’s nothing wrong with me. Leave off.”

Jaskier frowned, undeterred. “Would you like some water? A cool cloth for your brow?”

Geralt didn’t reply, hoping his glare would put an end to this line of conversation. Of course, it didn’t.

“If you’re sick,” Jaskier continued, “we need to see to it. You can’t travel if you’re unwell.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Geralt insisted. Just then the water in the pot began to boil, giving him a reason to make himself busy with the porridge. He took the pouch they carried the oats in and put three large handfuls into the water. He cast his gaze around for the wooden spoon, only to find Jaskier swinging it between his thumb and forefinger, looking smug.

“This what you need?” he teased.

Geralt stuck a finger out at the pot. “Stir, bardling.”

Jaskier stuck the spoon into the pot and did as he was told. He hummed pleasantly as he did it, clearly unaffected by Geralt’s sour mood. It only served to annoy Geralt further. He left the fire and stomped over to where Roach stood munching the oats Jaskier must have given her to brush her cursorily before they tacked up. She didn’t need it, but he didn’t want to sit and stare at Jaskier at the moment.

The bard delivered a bowl of porridge some time later, a pool of golden honey on top of it. Geralt’s mouth watered, though he wouldn’t admit that he’d come to crave the sweetness that Jaskier had introduced to their breakfast.

“Eat up,” said Jaskier brightly. “We should be on our way soon, don’t you think?”

“Mm,” said Geralt.

As Jaskier returned to the fire, Geralt stared after him. It seemed that things were going to be much the same, even after what had transpired. Or at least in the daylight. When it came night again, Geralt might come to crave Jaskier’s touch as much as he did the sweet honey.

* * *

There was no chance he was getting the iridescent purple blood out of his trousers this time, Geralt was sure. The three merciless bloedzuigers had managed not only to leave a deep scrape on his right forearm and a graze on his cheek, but had ruined some of the only clothes he had. If they weren’t already dead, he would have killed them a second time. Instead, he sheathed his silver sword and made his way back to where Roach was waiting to carry him into the small town in which he had picked up this job. She flared her nostrils distastefully at him when he arrived, but didn’t put up a fight when he mounted.

As they arrived back in town, they made straight for the alderman's house, where Geralt delivered the snouts of the monsters and collected his three hundred gold pieces. He tucked the purse into his jacket—also bloodstained—and sought out the tavern. It was there he’d left Jaskier after lunch, the bard intending to make his own coin with his usual songs. Amazingly, when Geralt walked in, he was still at it.

“ _Lady, go not by,_ ” he sang, “ _for thine eyes are as fair as a high summer sky._ ”

Geralt snorted and headed for the bar to get a tankard of ale. The barman eyed him with fright, but didn’t refuse to serve him when he produced the coin to pay. He drank a quarter of the tankard in one gulp, wetting his parched throat.

Jaskier was flitting around the tavern, singing the rest of his song as he smiled at townswomen and rubbed shoulders with the men. The pouch he wore at his waist was already heavy with gold, silver, or copper, and as Geralt was watching, a man with a long white beard dropped another coin into it. Jaskier bowed to him, though he sang on uninterrupted.

Geralt was halfway through his ale when the song finally ended, and Jaskier got light applause. He was, maybe, just about to launch into another when he saw Geralt at the bar. It looked as if he was going to smile, but then he caught sight of the gore spattered all over him and hastily grew concerned. He slung his lute around his back, saying to the crowd, “Thank you, gentlemen and ladies, for your attention, but I must retire.” He scampered toward the bar. “Geralt, what in the world happened to you?” A sniff. “You smell of bog water.”

“That’s the least of it,” said Geralt. He held up his tankard. “Ale?”

Jaskier’s eyes tracked to the gash on Geralt’s arm. “You’re hurt!” he cried. “Leave the bloody ale and let me see to that.”

“Later,” Geralt muttered, taking another drink. To his consternation, Jaskier tugged the tankard from his hand and started purposefully toward the stairs at the back of the tavern.

He called the barman as he went, “Bathwater, man, to my room. Quick as you can.”

“Coin first,” said the barman.

It was Geralt who landed two silver pieces on the bar before he trudged up the stairs behind Jaskier.

The bard had already found a room for himself, it seemed, since what little gear he had was already stashed in its corner. Geralt’s was to the side, but the implication was that he would take it to his own room when he had the opportunity. They’d both made enough coin that day to afford the luxury.

“Sit down,” said Jaskier with uncharacteristic authority when Geralt had closed the door behind them. There was a rickety chair at the foot of the bed, which Geralt eyed disdainfully. Jaskier wagged his finger, saying again, “ _Sit_ ,” and Geralt did.

A bowl and ewer of water stood on a side table. Jaskier went first to retrieve Geralt’s healing kit from his pack and then splashed clear water into the bowl. He brought both to Geralt’s side, where he knelt.

“You were just going to sit there and bleed, were you?” he said accusingly. “‘Yes, I’m Geralt of Rivia and I’d rather have an ale in my blood-soaked jerkin than go, _as I should_ , to treat my _very significant_ wounds.’” Taking Geralt’s arm in his hands, he shook his head. “This is full of dirt. Do you have a wish for blood poisoning?”

“Can’t get that,” said Geralt.

Jaskier scoffed. “Not if you clean your bloody— _literally bloody_ —cuts and scrapes, you won’t. Foolish, bullheaded Witcher. Do you have any idea what it would do to me if you just up and died because you didn’t wash out a wound? It would be an indignity for you, but for me it would be a true torment. Try as you might to play at being fine on your own, save for Roach, but I’m flabbergasted to see you’ve survived as long as you have. You have no care for yourself, I swear it.”

Geralt studied his face, red in his pique, as he pulled out a sachet of herbs to pour into the water. He soaked a cloth and then, making Geralt wince, squeezed herb-infused water onto his arm.

Jaskier clucked. “The blood is all dried around it, too. This will to hurt to clean, I’ll have you know. Foolish—”

“Bullheaded Witcher,” Geralt finished for him. “I’m aware. Go on with your tending, bardling.”

Despite Jaskier’s annoyance, his hands were soft on the gash. He laid the cloth over the wound for a short time to loosen the dried blood before starting to wipe it away. It brought up fresh blood, too, which he washed into the bowl. He was good at it—practiced—and he shouldn’t have been. It was not a skill a bard needed, but one a person stupid enough to travel with a Witcher had to learn.

“You’ve got a healer’s touch,” Geralt said as Jaskier wrang out the cloth a last time and picked up a pot of salve to slather over the wound before he bandaged it. The bandage was already laid out and ready.

“I get by,” said Jaskier, coating his fingers in salve. It smelled of mint and caraway. “And it’s only a boon to you, if you’re not going to do it yourself. I’d bet you’ve got a hundred scars from badly healed cuts. If you actually took care of them as you’re supposed to, you’d be in better shape.”

“Do you want to see them?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier stopped in his smearing of the salve. “See what?”

“My scars.”

Though they’d traveled for a long while together, they’d always been at least half dressed in each other’s company. Geralt’s chest was well adorned with scars, but he didn’t think Jaskier had ever truly had the opportunity to take them in. And there were those on his legs, too. He realized, with a little spark of shock, that he was very much proposing he remove all of his clothes and just let Jaskier _look at him_.

And the bard was staring intently. “Will you tell me about them?” he asked.

“I’ll bore you,” said Geralt.

Jaskier rested on hand on Geralt’s knee. “You won’t.”

Geralt nodded. “Then let me up.”

Jaskier held him fast. “Not yet. You need the bandage and someone to wash your face.”

“I can wash it in the bath,” Geralt protested, going again to rise, but Jaskier wouldn’t allow it.

“ _Sit_ , Witcher,” he said, “and let me finish with you.”

So bidden, Geralt stayed in the chair as Jaskier finished with the salve and wrapped a neat bandage around the wound to keep it clean. It was tight enough to stay on, but not tight enough to sting. The bard truly was a healer, even if he talked far too much to be a soothing presence.

“What part of the bloedzuiger gave you this?” he was saying as he padded at Geralt’s blood-marked cheek with the cloth. “Claws? Fangs? Tail? I don’t even know what they look like. It doesn’t matter, though. You still probably weren’t watching out for yourself. You never do. You should be supervised at all times.”

“Fuck that,” said Geralt. “I don’t hunt with other Witchers, and I’m sure as fuck not taking _you_ with me into the woods.”

Jaskier glared down at him, still holding his face up into the candlelight so he could properly tend to the scrape. It was minor at best, and hardly worth the fuss he was kicking up over it.

“Well,” said Jaskier, “ _someone_ has to look out for you, if you won’t do it yourself.” He took the cloth away and produced the salve again.

Geralt jerked his face out of his grip. “Don’t need that.”

“Don’t be a horse’s ass,” Jaskier scolded, growing more frustrated. “Not to disparage Roach by that. You’re not going to compromise your toughness with a little care, Geralt. Let me put the damn salve on it and it’ll be gone by the morning.”

“Nobody in Kaer Morhen was ever as bad of a nanny as you, bardling,” Geralt said, rumbling with displeasure. “Leave me be and go.”

“This is _my room_ , I’ll have you know,” said Jaskier. He rocked back with his weight on one leg, his arms crossed. The damp cloth he still held was making a wet spot in the blue of his doublet. “If anyone is going to leave, it’s you.” He paused, appraising, but added, “I don’t want you to, however.”

Geralt lifted one of his white eyebrows. “No?”

“No,” Jaskier told him decisively. “Plus, the bath is on its way. You really need to wash up.”

“I can do that in my own room,” said Geralt, though he wouldn’t have objected to bathing in Jaskier’s sight. He didn’t go to get up, either.

Frowning, Jaskier gathered up the soiled water in the bowl, dropping the used cloth into it, and set it back on the side table. As he did, he said, “Deal with that after you clean yourself. You’re a disaster. The smell is wretched. I’m sure the soap won’t smell of sweet summer breezes here, but it’ll be a sight better than what you reek of now.” Bowl replaced, he turned a stern eye on Geralt. “Only someone as good as me, who knows you and your shenanigans, would even deign to touch you at such a juncture.”

“You want to touch me?” Geralt asked. He was teasing, which was rare for him, but Jaskier’s response was not of amusement; his gaze grew hot and suggestive—predatory.

“Would you object to that?” he said, taking a long step toward where Geralt still sat. “It’s been on my mind since camp three days ago. You didn’t say a word about what happened. I thought you might have wanted to forget about it.”

Geralt said, before he thought the better of it, “How could I?”

Jaskier stopped two paces from him, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “You said you would do it again, and maybe more. Is that what you want tonight?”

At last, Geralt did get to his feet, feeling the soreness of a fight hard won. He moved to stand before Jaskier, leaving the bard to look up to meet his eyes. Geralt could see his pulse point move with each thump of his heart, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to wrap his fingers around his neck to feel it or press is lips there. He did neither.

“It was good,” was what he said, frank and to-the-point. “I’d do it again.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. “That’s…” He raised a hand and tentatively laid it on Geralt’s chest. “That’s good, then. Very good.”

Aware of the clean scent of him, Geralt brought his wrist to his nose and inhaled. It was basic soap, as Jaskier had claimed, but it was fresh and underneath lay the musk of his skin. Quite suddenly, Geralt wanted him naked so that he could smell, and maybe taste, the rest of him.

_Take your clothes off_ was on the tip of his tongue when there was a knock at the door: the arrival of the bathwater. Geralt was at that moment very conscious of his unpleasantness, and could very much fancy a bath. He wouldn’t ask Jaskier to lay hands or mouth on him until he no longer stank of blood and bog.

Jaskier went to the door and opened it for the servants bearing water, which they poured steadily into the copper tub they had brought along. It wasn’t large enough for Geralt to sit; instead, he would have to stand and soap himself up, rinsing the residue away with another pitcher left behind when the servants went out.

“Out of those nightmare clothes,” said Jaskier when they were alone again, “and into this tub.”

Geralt reasoned that there was no better time to strip off and offer his body for Jaskier’s appraisal than that, even if their conversation had tracked away from more intimate things before they were interrupted. He began the slow process of shedding his layers while Jaskier packed up the healing kit and tucked it away, talking all the while.

“We’ll need to stop by an apothecary before we leave town. You’re running low on supplies for burns and scratches. I think your healing potions are in short supply, too. If you get caught in another of these scrapes, you might not have what you require. I won’t be missing something if it comes down to it, I’ll tell you that much.”

His back was turned to Geralt as Geralt finally bared all of himself, but he came around to face him as Geralt made his way toward the tub. His interest was plain as he looked Geralt over from toes to nose. There was no hiding his appreciation, and Geralt tried not to preen. Even if he was a mutant, his body wasn’t anything to scoff at. It seemed that Jaskier agreed.

Naked, Geralt stepped into the water pooled in the shallow tub, picking up a coarse sponge. He dipped it into the water and began to spill the warmth over his shoulders and down his chest and back. It was perfect: clean and glistening, washing the gore away.

Jaskier continued to watch him for a short time, but then his slender fingers went to the buttons of his doublet, slowly undoing them.

“Do you plan on joining me?” Geralt asked, pausing in his washing to await an answer.

“No, no,” said Jaskier, “only sparing my fine clothes the damp.” He shed the doublet and then his shirt, leaving him bare-chested. “Hand me that sponge. You’re making a mess of it.”

Geralt didn’t resist, dropping it into Jaskier’s outstretched hand.

Jaskier was quick to take over the work of washing him, dipping the sponge again, though careful not to splash the freshly tied bandage around his arm. Geralt stood stock still to allow him to go about his business unhindered. There was an unusual moment of quiet before Jaskier touched a long white scar that crossed Geralt’s chest, barely missing his right nipple. 

“What’s this one from?” he asked.

“Alp claws,” Geralt told him, just resisting a shudder under Jaskier’s caress. “I was in the east in the forests where they hunt. Spent six days tracking the clan. Turned out there were more than I expected. The matriarch cut right through my jerkin into the flesh.”

“It must have bled a great deal,” said Jaskier, rubbing the sponge over the scar carefully.

“No,” Geralt said. “It was shallow, but it didn’t heal cleanly.” He grunted. “I didn’t wash it well on my way back to town.”

Jaskier eyed him, lips pursed. “Of _course_ you didn’t.” He bent to retrieve a chunk of soap, rubbing it between his wet hands before laying them on Geralt to scrub. His fingertips grazed another scar at his shoulder—round and jagged like a spill of ink on parchment. “And this?”

That was a harsh memory: a graveyard where three robbers and one mourner had been recently killed at night. “Cemetaur,” Geralt said. “Stabbed me there, through the armor.”

“Good gods,” Jaskier muttered. “And _that_ I hope you washed properly.”

Geralt shrugged. “Took a potion and it didn’t kill me.”

He was given an admonishing look. “The potion or the wound?”

“Both,” Geralt said. He had explained in basic terms how taking the wrong potion could kill someone as easily as a monster could. It took years of training to learn to pick the right ones.

Jaskier sighed, continuing to soap between Geralt’s pectorals, where a smattering of hair grew. It went lank with the water, though Jaskier’s fingers made circles that mussed it. Geralt felt a distinct stirring between his legs. He might have been concerned about his cock rising at just a bath, but he was sure Jaskier wouldn’t mind. It was after nightfall again, and that, Geralt expected, would shift the tenor of their behavior to the carnal. Having a half-naked Jaskier wash him was no small enticement to sex.

“You’re a wonder,” said Jaskier, catching Geralt off guard.

“Hm,” Geralt said, unconvinced. That was not something anyone said to a Witcher.

“Don’t be so dismissive,” the bard continued. “You think you’re some kind of abomination sometimes. Don’t pretend you don’t. It’s as if there’s nobody sensible who would want to spend their days with you, or touch you, or even to know about you.”

“Nobody sensible would,” said Geralt gruffly.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Then what does that make me?”

“A fool.”

At that, Jaskier stopped in his washing to peer up at Geralt. He blinked like an old owl: seemingly calm, but ready to strike down his prey after dark. Geralt felt the pressure and expectation of that gaze; he waited without breathing for what Jaskier would say.

“I might be that,” he said at last, “but you’re not something to discard after its purpose is fulfilled. Your employers might only see you as a tool, but I don’t. Mutant, yes, but monster, no.” Leaning in, he pressed a kiss against the edge of the bandage around Geralt's forearm. “What will it take for you to believe me?”

Quickly reaching out, Geralt wrapped his free arm around Jaskier’s bare waist. He answered earnestly: “I don’t think I ever will, but you don’t have to stop telling me.”

Jaskier smiled, laying a soapy hand above Geralt's heart. “I won’t. Now, tell me about another scar while I rinse you off.”

As water spilled down Geralt’s body, he recounted another story, maybe two—he was losing track as he paid more attention to how Jaskier looked at him and ran his hands over the scars in question. Geralt responded further, his cock coming to half-mast without compunction. It was only when he was washed fully that Jaskier seemed to note it. With his elegant musician’s fingers, he traced the length.

“Wondrous,” he murmured. He turned his face up to Geralt’s. “Will you go to bed with me? A proper bed this time?”

Geralt didn’t hesitate to step out of the murky bathwater, leaving wet footprints on the wooden floor. He reasoned it was answer enough.

Jaskier chided, “Let’s get you dried first, lest you dampen the sheets.” He went for a flannel and began to rub Geralt all over. “Sometimes I wonder about what kind of manners they taught at Kaer Morhen. Do you just burst from the bath and go galloping straight to your bed? Then again, that presumes that baths were common there. It’s bloody cold in the north, and from what I know of you, washing doesn’t always come first.” He sniffed, though not distastefully.

Mostly dry and suddenly impatient, Geralt latched onto him and lifted him off his feet.

“Geralt, what—” he sputtered before he was dumped unceremoniously onto the bed. 

Geralt wasted no time in crawling in beside him, hands on his chest and belly. “You said take you bed. I’ve done that.”

Jaskier laughed weakly. “Yes, it appears you have. Didn’t even let me get undressed.”

“Do it for you,” said Geralt, as he started to roughly unlace Jaskier’s trousers.

The bard lay back, looking sly and pleased while Geralt fumbled with the fastenings. It wasn’t often he undressed other men. “You should probably do the boots first,” Jaskier said. “Unless you like that kind of thing.”

Geralt frowned, taking a moment to rightly realize what he meant. “I don’t.”

“I figured not.” Lifting his legs, Jaskier waggled his booted feet at him. “Well?” he prompted.

Annoyed and yet indulgent, Geralt yanked the shoes away and dropped them percussively to the floor. He divested Jaskier of his socks. He’d already bathed that afternoon while Geralt was gone; there was no road dust between his narrow toes. Taking one foot, Geralt pressed his thumbs into the arch, eliciting a groan from Jaskier.

“Oh, you didn’t say _anything_ about a foot rub. It’s been an age since anyone’s done that, and the road is hard on one’s feet, don’t you think? I should write a song about that. Though, there are a great deal of traveling tunes already. But maybe not one about sore feet. Do you think that would be a crowd-pleaser?”

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, “shut up.”

He massaged the other foot for a time, watching Jaskier’s eyes close and his mouth drop open in pleasure. It was captivating to see the ecstasy in his face, the laxness of his muscles as Geralt worked. Geralt wanted to give him more, and because of it, he turned his attention to Jaskier’s upright cock.

“ _Oh_!” Jaskier exclaimed as Geralt took hold of him. “You’re burning hot. Even your hands.”

“Not good?” asked Geralt.

Jaskier shook his head quickly. “No, no, very good. Very, _very_ good.”

Geralt, pleased enough with that, began to stroke him. It was strange to have another man’s cock in his hand, but it wasn’t so off-putting as to make him stop. He liked the feel of Jaskier in his grip: the solid heft of him and the occasional twitch as the blood filled him further. Jaskier kept his eyes on Geralt’s face when they were open, and Geralt felt powerful under that blatant arousal—his doing.

“I hoped you might do this eventually,” Jaskier said, low and sultry. “I wouldn’t have asked you to if you didn’t want it, but it’s far better to have someone else’s hand around you than your own. Not that you don’t know yourself best, but another’s touch… Especially yours.”

Geralt, his fingers tight around the tip of Jaskier’s cock, worrying the most sensitive places, said, “Especially mine? Why?”

Jaskier looked down his prone body at where Geralt was propped up beside him, on his side. “I don’t think you quite understand just how attractive you are. Broad and brawny, tall and imposing. The silent bit makes one want pry the words out of you, or at least make you moan in bed.”

“You make me talk,” Geralt grumbled. “Can’t just ignore you all the time.”

“Do you want to ignore me?” asked Jaskier.

Geralt shook his head, stroking down Jaskier’s cock and receiving a pleased “mm” in response. “No, bardling, I don’t.”

Jaskier bit his lower lip, which went straight to Geralt’s gut. He said, “From the very start I couldn’t look past you. You’re stunning, Geralt, truly.” A pause and then a murmured, “I want you to ravish me, you know.”

Geralt swallowed heavily, his mind jumping to something he wasn’t sure he was prepared to face just yet. Jaskier must have read it in his face because he said, “Steady. There’s no hurry to get to that. We can do a mini ravishing tonight, if you’d care to: just your hands and mine.”

“At the same time?” said Geralt.

“I was thinking so, yes. Come lie beside me and I’ll show you how.”

Geralt lowered himself down at Jaskier’s side, facing him and waiting. He couldn’t help but look the bard up and down, from his narrow hips and shoulders to long and slim legs. He wasn’t built for combat, that much was evident, but he was pretty in a more delicate way that drew Geralt to him. It wasn’t girlish, though; he was clearly a man through and through. Geralt reached for him again, wrapping his fingers around his cock.

“That’s right,” said Jaskier. “You won’t have to do more. Though we could use something slick. I didn’t think of it…”

“The salve,” Geralt said. “It’ll serve.”

Jaskier grinned. “And make the skin nice and smooth, too, I’m sure. Wait here.” He sprang from the bed and over to the healing kit. He had to bend over at the waist, which provided Geralt with an excellent view of his backside. Geralt would have liked to have taken hold of it then, cupping both sides and pulling Jaskier against him.

When the bard returned to bed, Geralt took hold and pressed them together. Jaskier was smiling, his gaze dropping to Geralt’s mouth. Geralt wasted no time in kissing him, fire igniting in his belly and making his cock throb. Jaskier opened his mouth readily and Geralt pushed his tongue inside, tasting him as he had intended to. Jaskier groaned and put his fingers into Geralt’s still-wet hair. He tugged, which made Geralt groan, too.

“There it is,” Jaskier mumbled against his mouth. “Those sounds. I need to hear them. Don’t hold back.”

Blindly, he was fumbling with the jar of salve. Geralt broke their kiss to take it from him and open it. He dipped his forefingers into the jelly and brought out a dollop. Meeting Jaskier’s eyes, he said, “This enough?”

“Should be,” said Jaskier. He put a small amount of space between them, allowing Geralt to slick his cock. “Let me see to you.” With salve in hand, he began to stroke Geralt in insistent, sure pulls.

This pairing of them together was still unusual, though not in a way Geralt didn’t like. Jaskier was slender and warm against him, but was not in the least uncomfortable in his arms. He was, perhaps, the first lover Geralt had had who truly and unabashedly desired him.

_Lover_.

Little Jaskier, his babbling bardling, was his lover. Geralt’s chest constricted, and he drew him closer, pressing a kiss to his brow.

“Is this all right?” Jaskier asked, hushed. “Do you need something else?”

“No,” Geralt replied. “Tell me if I can do more for you. I want to you to lose yourself. Feel it. See it.”

Jaskier trembled. “Gods, Geralt, you’ll be the death of me. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Not disappointing?” Geralt ventured, even as Jaskier made another desperate noise in his throat.

“No. Not in the least. Could be better than I imagined.” He gave Geralt’s cock a long stroke. “I couldn’t put this kind of pleasure into song. I wouldn’t do it justice.”

“Hm. Don’t want you to sing about fucking me anyway.”

Jaskier chuckled, although it was lost in a gasp as Geralt jerked him up and down determinedly. “I would, my brawny Witcher. I would write odes to this.”

Geralt grunted and caught him in another kiss. “I’d gag you.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” said Jaskier, pulling back. “I’ll gladly choke on your—”

“For once, bardling, don’t keep talking.” He twisted his slick hand around Jaskier, earning himself a deep moan.

“I’m close,” Jaskier warned. “Do you care if I spill on your fingers?”

Geralt’s answer came easily, albeit unexpectedly: “I want that. Make your mess, Jaskier.”

“ _Gods_ ,” he whispered. “You undo me.” It took only one more stroke and then he was arching against Geralt, his spend sullying his fingers. It was as hot as Geralt’s own was, though there was less than he was used to. It combined with the salve and slicked him more as Geralt finished him off softly.

Jaskier took a moment to catch his breath, but didn’t take long to resume his strokes of Geralt’s cock. “Now it’s your turn,” he said huskily.

It didn’t take long as Jaskier kissed up and down his neck, suckling lightly, but not hard enough to leave marks. Geralt wouldn’t have objected if he did; he would wear their passion without shame. He was, he realized, hungry to be marked.

When Geralt came with a long groan, Jaskier kissed him again, deeply. After, the bard curled against him, and they lay in a lazy embrace.

“We’ll be needing a second bath,” Jaskier said. “That water you used is spoiled. But that means one of us has to get up, dress, and go buy more water. And your own room.”

Geralt hadn’t considered getting accommodations of his own, not when he was perfectly comfortable sharing the bed with Jaskier. He asked, “Do you want me to go?”

“Get water? It would be a treat to stay here.”

“No,” said Geralt. “To my own room.”

Jaskier sat up on his elbow, looking down at Geralt. “People will talk if we share one. Assumptions will be made.”

“Hm.” He paused and then said, “Are you ashamed?”

“Of course not!” said Jaskier. “It’s you I was thinking of. To go from never having been with a man to lying with one openly—”

“We didn’t fuck in the middle of the tavern. It’s not for everyone to see.”

Jaskier sighed. “It’s not necessary for them to _see_. They’ll know anyway.”

Geralt couldn’t have been less bothered, he found. “It’s your reputation on the line,” he said, “not mine. You’re the one fucking a Witcher.”

“I certainly am,” Jaskier said, unaffected. “And there’s no shame in that.”

“Then I’ll get the water,” Geralt said. “And something to eat.” He got up, tugging on his trousers and a shirt. He couldn’t be arsed with his boots. Jaskier was sprawled out naked and spend-spattered on the bed. Geralt had never seen him look better. “Stay just like that, bardling, until I come back to you.”

Jaskier smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”

Geralt hastened to the tavern proper to arrange for more water. He’d be the one doing the washing this time, touching Jaskier all over and appreciating every inch.

_Lover_.

That was more than Geralt had ever thought he deserved, and yet Jaskier had chosen him. He couldn’t and wouldn’t take that for granted.


	4. Three

####  **Three**

Geralt had never been one to seek pleasure more than once every few weeks, hard as it was to come by when he was so often on the road and so often covered in gore when he came into a town where there was a brothel to be found. He’d grown used to the long spells without, so it took a significant adjustment to accustom himself to Jaskier’s frequent caresses.

Once given free rein, the bard was insatiable. He’d slip into Geralt’s bedroll nightly, most times wearing nothing but his drawers and carrying a bottle of slick oil he’d procured at the apothecary, and reach between Geralt’s legs to bring him off. Geralt returned the favor, of course, and had gotten better at it with time.

It was easy now for him to set Jaskier to trembling with passing touches, a power he did his best not to abuse and yet found himself using far too much. He would lay a hand against the side of Jaskier’s neck while he knelt by the campfire, or casually brush the back of his hand while they walked Roach to give her a rest. Each time Jaskier would jump or draw in a sharp breath, sometimes turning fiery eyes on Geralt. There was more than one occasion upon which Geralt had found himself pinned against a tree off the road with his cock down Jaskier’s throat and his fingers in the bard’s short hair just because he had touched him lightly.

He wasn’t immune to Jaskier’s more subtle attentions, either. The gentle tending of a wound had landed Jaskier in his lap while Geralt kissed him over and over, deeply. Once, Jaskier had simply brushed his fingertips through the ends of Geralt’s hair while they were eating their morning porridge and moments later he was on the ground with his cock out and Geralt’s hand around it. They hadn’t even undressed.

It was unlike anything Geralt had known in his long life.

A sennight after they had first shared their room at the inn found them camped in a forest freshly misted with rain so that fat droplets of water still fell from the leaves of the trees when they were disturbed by meager breezes. Just then one dropped onto Geralt’s head, making him glare up at the canopy as he stirred the squirrel stew he was making.

Jaskier was sitting nearby with his lute in his hands, playing softly. He had been unusually circumspect with the lyrics of his Witcher ballad. Instead of singing them out in fireside rehearsals, he hummed their flow without revealing the words. Geralt was admittedly curious, but wouldn’t have told Jaskier that. The bard would sing his song when he meant to and not before; Geralt wouldn’t bother him for a rendition.

“Is that nearly finished?” Jaskier asked, pausing in his playing. “I’m famished. So much so that I will actually eat a squirrel. There wasn’t anything better?”

Geralt grunted, picking up a spoonful of the stew and tasting it. The flavor was less than impressive, but it made no matter to his empty stomach. Reaching for their two wooden bowls, he ladled a portion into each.

“Here,” he said to Jaskier. “Eat this.”

Jaskier put his lute away in its case and came to the fireside to tuck in. He tasted the hot stew and didn’t make a face, so Geralt reasoned it was decent enough. Taking his own spoon up, he started on his bowl.

“We’re not long for Termeria, are we?” Jaskier said between bites. “A few days at most. I assume there’s little work to be had in court, but we might stop at an inn before we arrive. I wouldn’t mind a real bed for a night. My back is killing me.”

“You don’t complain when you’re sharing my bedroll,” Geralt said, one eyebrow raised in the bard’s direction.

Jaskier huffed. “No, but that doesn’t make it untrue. The ground is hard, and so is your chest to sleep on. I could say my neck hurts, too, but I won’t moan on about that.”

Geralt was looking into the fire as he said, “No, you do a different type of moaning.” He received a shove to the shoulder for it.

“You wicked Witcher,” Jaskier admonished, “saying such suggestive things. Who would have thought you to be such a tease?”

“Am I teasing you?” Geralt asked. “Only saying what’s true.”

Jaskier tipped his head back and forth, conceding. “Oh, very well. You’re not wrong. You bring out the very most salacious noises. Are you quite proud of yourself for it?”

“Hm,” said Geralt. And then: “Yes.”

Laughing, Jaskier bumped his shoulder against Geralt’s. “You should be. Not anyone can make a strumpet of me, I’ll have you know. I’m not as easy for others as I am for you.”

That had the blood in Geralt’s stomach dropping to his groin, his hunger fading in exchange for lust. He set down his half-empty bowl and turned properly to face Jaskier. “Easy for me?” he inquired. “What makes you that?”

Jaskier popped his spoon into his mouth, thoughtfully sucking it clean and drawing Geralt’s gaze to his mouth, the bastard. Another rush of blood between Geralt’s legs. “Well,” Jaskier said, “I’ve had my share of trysts over the years, but there’s no one I’ve been as hungry for.” He looked Geralt up and down, as he was wont to do when his intentions were turning toward the lascivious. “I can’t get enough of you, and it’s easy enough for me divest myself of my very fine trousers to be at your mercy.”

Geralt disliked that phrasing, but said nothing of it. Instead: “Will you take them off now?”

“In the middle of dinner, Geralt,” Jaskier said. “You’re in a mood tonight.”

Frowning, Geralt pressed: “Do you want it or not?”

Jaskier was quick to stuff a last bite of stew into his mouth and then lay his bowl aside. He held out his open hands and said, “Of course I do.”

Geralt pounced from where he sat, and Jaskier went easily down onto his back in the soft leaf litter. Geralt crept over him, his eyes on Jaskier’s narrow fingers. He took him by the wrist and lifted his hand to his mouth, pressing soft kisses to the tips.

“Oh,” Jaskier sighed. “That’s very nice.”

“You have pretty hands,” said Geralt. “I watch them when you play. Thought about tasting them.”

Jaskier blinked up at him, gently curling his forefinger against Geralt’s lower lip. “Have you?”

Geralt nodded and parted his lips to take Jaskier’s finger onto his tongue. He earned another shaking sigh for his trouble, which became one of those moans he so yearned to pull from Jaskier as he sucked at the finger.

Jaskier’s skin was calloused from years of contact with lute strings and tasted slightly metallic from them, too. Geralt swirled his tongue around his forefinger while Jaskier watched raptly. It wasn’t often Geralt made a show of sex, but there were many things he did with Jaskier that he had never or had rarely done before. He sucked for the pleasure of it, but also for Jaskier’s clear interest. When he felt the pressure of a second finger at his mouth, he took it in, too.

Unable to speak, he kept his attention on Jaskier, who did more than enough talking for the both of them, as usual.

“Gods, your lips, Geralt: sinful. How I wanted to kiss you just days after we met. I yearned to taste the ale on your tongue, brush it with mine and nibble on your lips until they were red with it. Oh, to have that be my doing; I would have fought all manner of your monsters for the privilege.”

Geralt took his fingers from his mouth and scowled down at Jaskier. “No monsters for you. You know I won’t allow it.”

Jaskier dragged his two wet fingers down Geralt’s chin, chucking him under it. “Fear for my safety, do you?”

There was no hesitation in the reply, Geralt discovered: “Yes. I won’t let you get hurt, bardling. By anyone or anything.” He could imagine the worst—bandits, poisons at court, loose monsters—but he would take the blows before he let them get to Jaskier. Witchers looked out for themselves first and foremost; or at least Geralt _had_ , before.

Jaskier’s hand came to the side of Geralt’s stubbled face; he hadn’t shaved in days. “The odes you should have, Geralt, my Witcher.”

Geralt said, “You don’t want to be mine.”

“It’s too late,” said Jaskier. “I already am.” With insistence, he drew Geralt down to him and kissed him hard. Geralt braced his hands on either side of Jaskier’s head, fencing him in possessively. He shouldn’t possess anything other than his swords and maybe Roach, but Jaskier was too good to him to send away. No one should be good to Witchers, and yet.

In that moment, Geralt wanted to give him more than he had before, to do something he hadn’t been prepared to do. Jaskier was free with his mouth where Geralt had been uncertain. No longer. Geralt would taste more of him that night.

Breaking the kiss, he said, “Take off your clothes.”

“As long as you take off yours,” was Jaskier’s teasing response.

“Hm. All right.” Rolling up onto his feet, Geralt offered his hand to pull Jaskier to his. In so doing, he drew the bard into his arms and pressed another kiss to his mouth. He stopped Jaskier before he could slide his arms around his neck and keep them both there. 

“Bedroll,” he said sternly.

Jaskier scampered to the side where they had left their bedding and Roach’s saddle. He ignored his own roll, instead taking Geralt’s larger one and unfurling it on the ground. They both stood looking at it for a moment before they set to unlacing their boots.

When their clothes were cast aside and Jaskier stood naked in front of Geralt, Geralt stopped to admire him, though his eyes tracked to his upright cock nestled in a small patch of dark hair. Geralt’s own thatch was as white as the hair on his head.

“Is something wrong?” Jaskier asked, looking down his bare body. “With me?”

Geralt went to him directly and set a hand at his waist. “No. Lie down, bardling.”

Jaskier did as he was bidden and sprawled out enticingly on the bedroll, asking, “Are you going to lie with me?”

“Not exactly,” Geralt replied. Crouching, he parted Jaskier’s legs until he could kneel between them. He ran his hands up Jaskier’s lightly haired thighs to their juncture at his groin. “Can I—” he started, though he trailed off.

“Can you what?” asked Jaskier. His voice was thick—deep and affecting.

Geralt turned his gaze down again to Jaskier’s cock. He said, “Suck you.”

Jaskier hadn’t been expecting it; his surprise was plain. “You can, of course,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to.”

Geralt hadn’t been sure either, but he said, “I do.” A hesitation and then: “You’ll have to tell me how.”

Clearly eager, Jaskier said, “Yes, I can do that. It’s not difficult, just odd the first time.”

“Doesn’t seem hard,” Geralt said.

Jaskier winked at him. “Oh, it’s very hard. Or at least I am.”

“Hm,” Geralt grumbled.

“Here,” said Jaskier. “Hold onto the base. Take only the tip into your mouth at first. You don’t want to choke.”

Geralt took a long look at Jaskier’s cock, pink at the head and damp with just a small amount of smooth fluid, and then he bent his head and took him between his lips.

The taste was not so bad—Jaskier was clean—but the slickness of the fluid he hadn’t expected. He nearly pulled back, but instead used his tongue to clear it away, swallowing it down. The noise Jaskier made had him assuming he had done right. One of the bard’s hands came into his hair, tugging at the leather thong around which his forelock was wrapped.

“That’s perfect, yes,” he said. “Just up and down a bit now. Don’t take too much at once.”

Geralt did, careful not to push too much of Jaskier’s cock inside his mouth and gag. It was no small feat to overcome that reflex, though he assumed he could do so with practice. He caught himself there: practice. It was something he would do again, and gladly, if he could pull such delicious sounds from Jaskier with only his tongue and hand.

“Mm, oh, yes,” Jaskier was saying from above him. “Your mouth burns hot, too. It’s divine. Geralt, that’s… _Yes_ , like that.”

Geralt’s chest constricted again upon hearing his name, and he dared to take Jaskier slightly deeper. He got a long groan.

“Faster,” said Jaskier. “Suck a little harder. That’s right. _Gods_!”

Geralt saw to him as he ordered, growing more used to the motion and the strain on his jaw, coming to enjoy it if he gave Jaskier pleasure. As he worked, he moved his other hand up Jaskier’s belly to his chest, where he found a nipple and brought it up hard with his attentions. He pinched lightly, and Jaskier hissed.

“More,” the bard said.

Moving to the other nipple, Geralt toyed with it as he would his own, though it seemed that Jaskier liked it far better than he himself did. He kept at it, again amazed at the power he had to affect Jaskier so.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier was murmuring. “You’re good at this. A natural. I could sing odes to your mouth, your tongue. Don’t stop. _Please_ don’t stop.”

Geralt made a mistake then. He swallowed Jaskier down until he gagged, making him cough and reel back. Jaskier made a small, pained sound, but asked, “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” said Geralt. “It’s good?”

Jaskier nodded fervently. “Incredible. But if you want to stop—”

“I don’t. I’ll make you come, bardling.”

“Gods above,” said Jaskier, clutching at Geralt’s forearm. “Please. I beg you, yes. Please.”

The begging did him in, and Geralt took him again deep—if not deep enough to choke. With his hand, he rolled Jaskier’s testicles in a gentle massage, pressing the sensitive place behind them. Jaskier writhed and pushed his hips up. Geralt managed not to break his rhythm despite it.

Jaskier was mid-moan when he told him, “Stop, stop. I’m too close. I’ll spoil you.”

“Spoil me how?” Geralt asked. He had drawn his mouth away, but kept stroking with his hand.

“How do you think?” Jaskier said, almost gasped. “Spill into your mouth. You shouldn’t have to do that the first time.”

Geralt was never one to back down from a challenge. “Do it,” he said, before swooping back down to swallow Jaskier’s cock again.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried, his grip on Geralt’s hair tightening. He grew more demanding, pushing Geralt’s head down slightly. Geralt braced himself against Jaskier’s skinny thigh, but he couldn’t have been prepared for the bloom of hot spend on his tongue a few seconds later. It was far short of pleasurable, and he was quick to pull away and spit messily onto the ground. The taste remained, making him scowl.

“I _did_ warn you,” Jaskier said, sounding languid and sated.

Geralt, face pinched, rolled over and away from the bedroll to seek the pouch of water he kept in his pack.

“There’s wine in my pouch,” Jaskier called.

Geralt stopped to raise his brows at him. “Is that why you’ve only been taking little sips these past days?”

Jaskier, anything but contrite, said, “Just have some, Witcher.”

Geralt went to Jaskier’s things and drew out the pouch. Inside was indeed wine: rich and spiced. He drank deeply, washing Jaskier’s spend from his tongue.

When he returned to the bedroll, Jaskier said, “You did well. Did you, ah, enjoy it?”

Geralt wiped his mouth and considered. There was no lying about it. He replied, “Yes. Did you?”

“ _Yes_. There’s no question of that.”

Allowing himself to be pleased with his work, Geralt lay down beside Jaskier. The bard lifted himself up on his elbows and kissed Geralt’s mouth. Geralt guided him back down onto the blankets, lips on him all the while. Jaskier laid one palm against his cheek and slid the other down between them to cup Geralt’s cock. He was only half-hard, but that would soon be remedied if Jaskier kept that up.

“Care for me to return the favor?” Jaskier asked, sultry as only he could be. Geralt pushed his hips forward, inviting more touch, and Jaskier smiled. “As my Witcher wishes.”

He took his time about it—far more than Geralt had—but by the end, Geralt was panting and mindless with the feeling of it all. When he spent himself, Jaskier swallowed neatly before taking a swig of wine to wash it down.

When they were finished, they stayed together, lying bare to the night as orange and red flames cast shadows over their bodies. Jaskier, his head in the cook of Geralt’s shoulder, idly drew circles over Geralt’s right pectoral, and Geralt stroked his upper arm in return.

Eventually, Geralt said, “Odes to my tongue? You’re not serious.”

“Well, no,” said Jaskier, “in that I won’t actually write them because you’d have me hanged before I could sing them, but the material is there. _The tongue of a Witcher, mine has never known sweeter_.”

“Don’t,” Geralt warned. “Do _not_ go on.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Yes, all right, I won’t.”

Geralt laid his palm against Jaskier’s soft hair. “Will your ballad be finished for Temeria?”

“Yes, and it will have the entire court cheering by the end.” He drummed in fingers against Geralt’s chest. “Why do you ask?”

“You don’t sing it when we’re on the road.”

Jaskier said, “No. It’s to be a surprise for them, and for you. I think you’ll fancy it.”

“Will I?” asked Geralt.

“Well,” Jaskier replied, “I do hope so.”

Pressing a kiss to the top of the bard’s head, Geralt said, “Hm.”


	5. Four

Geralt, or any Witcher, did not belong in the noble courts. His place was in the forests with his blade, or knee deep in muck on a lake’s shore as he hunted; it was not in a blue velvet doublet shot with gold thread and buttoned with pearls amongst the colorful finery of the courtiers. And yet there he was, leaning against a pillar at the back of the great hall in Temeria with a cup of mead in his hand—the only tolerable element of the entire affair.

The rest and a bath in a deep tub weren’t things he could object to, but he had attempted to beg off joining Jaskier for his performance at court, instead intending to seek work in the city below the castle. To his immense annoyance, though, Jaskier had looked so put out by the very notion that Geralt wouldn’t come hear him sing that Geralt had had no choice but go to the clothier and buy something presentable. In so doing, he was treated to Jaskier preening in each of the jackets he tried on. Geralt’s own fitting was less enthusiastic.

His bardling had spent more than one night in the past days giving half-moaned instructions as Geralt sucked his cock, teaching and moulding him into a far better lover than he’d been before. Not to say he was a layabout who never gave pleasure, but it was far more affecting to set Jaskier to gasping than it had ever been to make a woman scream.

On the road they shared a bedroll, but at the castle they had been given separate rooms. Jaskier had looked to Geralt to see if he would protest, and when he hadn’t, had nursed disappointment alone in his room before dinner was served. Seeing Geralt again in the hall, however, he smiled—even if he didn’t make his way toward him; Jaskier stayed across the way, entertaining a trio of ladies in gowns that together made the colors of sunrise.

A deep drink of mead kept Geralt in a good enough humor to put up with the pageantry. Keeping his yellow eyes on Jaskier, too, passed the time. The bard had a way with both men and women that Geralt could not dream of having himself. Jaskier’s japes and hummed lines of song had them tittering and applauding. Roving, admiring hands brushed his jacket, his back, his arms. One lady even dared to trace his jaw with her manicured fingertips.

Geralt’s temper had flared at that, his own fingers tightening around the cup he held. He had no claim on Jaskier, and yet he wanted to take the offending lady’s hand and twist it behind her back until she slunk away. That would get him thrown directly out of the hall—he’d miss the debut of Jaskier’s ballad—so he resisted.

As the minstrels concluded their song with a rumbling of drums and drawn-out fiddles, Jaskier made his excuses to the gaggle he had attracted and trotted to where the musicians were camped in the corner of a hall. A quick few words had the drummer rolling out a beat, that drew attention to them. Jaskier, lithe as a cat, sprang up onto the end of one of the tables and called, “My lords, my ladies, I would play for you.”

Faces turned to him and anyone who had fawned over him earlier began to clap. He inclined his head, announcing, “I would like to offer you a ballad of love and sorrow, of one who cared passionately, and despite a long life, could not outlive their lover.

“Some would say the object of love is a creature who could not return that ardor, but I know better. I know that they feel great passion and have immeasurable care, even if they adamantly deny it.”

Geralt’s mouth turned down into a sour bow, but Jaskier wasn’t looking to him; his focus was entirely on his audience—holding them rapt.

“Ladies, lords, your highnesses, I give you ‘A Witcher, Once I Loved.’”

The melody was one Geralt had heard many times by then, but at last he was permitted to enjoy Jaskier’s clear voice as the lyrics flowed freely over the hall.

_Upon his golden eyes I set my heart,  
_ _And with the pledge of love resigned,  
_ _To days and nights spent long apart.  
_ _But to his form and voice inclined,  
_ _In his breast I would become enshrined._

Lilting and tinged with besotted yearning, the ballad seemed, to Geralt, to affect every soul in the room, echoing through its vaulted ceilings.

_It was not a merry courtship had,  
_ _For none did readily his presence condone.  
_ _Still for his countenance was I glad  
_ _Upon every meeting when we were alone._

It came as no surprise that in the story there was little joy in pursuing a Witcher, when none in any village, town, or keep would wish that fate upon their child. _Jaskier finds joy_ , the most hidden places in Geralt’s mind suggested. Was it joy, though, the bardling found? Or simply convenient pleasure?

_His kiss tasted of a potent potion,  
_ _One that gave him life when life was far.  
_ _One press of lips and I was smitten,  
_ _For the man who was once Kaer Morhen’s star._

Geralt snorted. Kaer Morhen had never had a single finest man among those training to be Witchers; no “star.” He himself had been a keen student, but would never have purported to be more than, well, _highly_ capable. Of course, Jaskier found a way to put a romantic face to the northern, now-forgotten fortress and its reviled mutants.

_His silver blade carried him north and south,  
_ _To places beyond my ken.  
_ _In his absence I awaited the touch of his mouth,  
_ _For his love was potent beyond mere men._

Around the hall, listeners sighed at the high, lovelorn enchantment of it. Geralt, for just a moment, was willing to believe someone could crave a Witcher’s kiss—his kiss.

_And love me he did for as long as he could,  
_ _But short is my life by his side.  
_ _I am but a lover of whose place is stood  
_ _In so few years to him tied._

There was the true anguish of it: a Witcher would outlive any family, any cherished ones. They saw the rises and falls of kingdoms across decades, rarely involving themselves in the intrigues and political machinations thereof. They did not fail to love because they were incapable of it, but because they would eventually lose it all, watching it fade away as time inevitably passed. 

Jaskier sang on, his lute like a part of his body, effortlessly making music:

_‘It makes no matter, dear heart,’ he tells,  
_ _To keep my soul steady and blithe.  
_ _Yet I cannot be settled when death comes hither,  
_ _Ringing for me its mournful bells._

_My beloved ages not, but I shall go.  
_ _I will fade from his heart without trace.  
_ _He tells me that he shall carry always the woe  
_ _Of me, a lover he could never erase._

Geralt’s throat constricted, a knot forming just under the apple. There were many people who had passed through his life he didn’t recall, but then there were the few that stuck in his mind, if not the center of his chest. Recent recollections of nights spent with slender Jaskier pressed against his side, snoring softly, of the warmth of Jaskier’s smooth lips as he kissed up Geralt’s neck—or down to his cock—reverberated through him like the last chords played in bass tones.

One day Geralt would lose him, whether it was when he grew tired of the road and bland, foraged foods, and patching Geralt’s wounds, or when his body began to age and grow too fragile to put at risk in a Witcher’s work. The mead suddenly turned Geralt’s stomach. He would have thrown the clay up against the wall if it would not have interrupted the song. He sat it down by his feet instead, to be forgotten.

_But on the impending goodbye we must bid,  
_ _I should not give my leave to dwell,  
_ _For my heart and my love I n’er hid.  
_ _I was drawn by him under his Witcher’s spell._

As the last verse concluded and the final notes faded away, there was a silence across the hall. Jaskier had clearly been expecting an immediate reaction, and when he didn’t get it, peered apprehensively around the room. Unable to bear his discomfort, Geralt brought his hands together in fast, percussive applause. It took only a heartbeat’s length for all the others to join in. It was roar of approval, from clapping to cheers and calls for him to play it again. Jaskier’s face split into the familiar smile that burned through Geralt’s middle, and he swept a low bow.

When the din calmed some, Jaskier received his congratulations from the king and queen, for which he thanked them profusely. More songs were requested and he was more than happy to oblige. Geralt, crossing his arms over his chest, stayed in his place against the pillar to watch and listen.

He wasn’t altogether aware—which could have gotten him killed if he was anywhere else—until she spoke that one of the sunrise ladies had appeared at his side.

“My lord, I may be mistaken,” she said, “but are you not a Witcher?”

Geralt turned to find her a slight young woman with hollow cheeks and a jaw that could cut glass. Hers was the russet gown.

“I am,” he told her, simple enough.

Interest passed over his face, though she remembered her courtesies and returned it to impassiveness in short order. She asked, “And what is your name, my lord?”

“You don’t have to call me that,” he groused. “My name will do. Geralt, of Rivia.”

She held out her hand for him to take, which he did not. Wetting her lips, she drew it back. “I am Lorraine, and it is my pleasure to meet you, Geralt of Rivia.”

“Hm.”

“Did you enjoy the ballad Master Jaskier played?” Lorraine said, a touch of a smile on her lips.

She was far more canny than she played at, Geralt could sense it. There were many fools at court, but she was not one of them. She had seen him lurking and recognized him. She might have hid that, yet he was certain she knew more—likely about him—than she was letting on. How she discovered that, however, he couldn’t have guessed. And Geralt didn’t like uncertainty.

“He sang well,” Geralt replied.

Lorraine brushed the backs of her fingers against her jaw, drawing Geralt’s eyes to her perfectly smooth dark skin. Her complexion was well-cared for, that much was true. One thumb against her slightly open mouth, she made a gentle noise of pleasure. “It was utterly beautiful, and so tragic. I’ve never heard its like.” She fixed Geralt with a more pointed gaze. “Is it true, do you think?”

Geralt shrugged one shoulder, his answer.

If Lorraine was put off by his laconism, she didn’t show it. She continued, “Part of me hopes it is, for that kind of love is so rare. But the other part doesn’t wish that suffering upon anyone.” Her expression grew sly, conspiratorial. “Should we ask him?”

Geralt had no interest in games. “No one’s stopping you,” he said.

“Oh, but I would have you come with me! We must have your perspective, your Witcher’s heart.” Reaching out, she took him by the arm and tugged him toward her. He had fought off far worse creatures than a courtier and could easily have told her to fuck off, but instead he allowed himself to be drawn away from the pillar and led to where Jaskier was now standing at the center of the hall, sorrounded by admirers.

Lorraine was startlingly efficient at pushing her way through the crowd without giving anyone offense. Her whip-crack voice drew Jaskier’s attention immediately. 

“Master Jaskier,” she said, Geralt at her side, “my new friend Geralt and I wished to ask the truth of your ballad.”

Jaskier shot a bemused look, one eyebrow cocked, at Geralt, who offered nothing by way of explanation. He turned to Lorraine, saying, “My dear lady, what makes you ask?”

“We are both asking,” she said, patting Geralt’s arm where it was threaded through hers. “If you do not know him, Geralt is a true Witcher, the White Wolf of Rivia. There are songs of him across the Continent.”

There it was. He had Jaskier to thank for this uncomfortable exchange.

“There are indeed,” Jaskier said, impish. “I’m honored, Sir Witcher, to have you in the audience tonight. Your reputation precedes you.”

Geralt was scowling openly at him, which the courtiers surely noted, but Jaskier’s charm drew him into the charade. Yet annoyed, but unable to refuse to play along, he said, “The honor is mine. Your music is excellent.”

Jaskier laid a hand over his heart and inclined his head. “Thank you.” Blinking up as innocently as a doe, he asked, “Do you truly wish to know if the story of the Witcher’s lover is true?”

“I do,” said Geralt. “As does Lady Lorraine.”

She said, “Oh, I do, Master Jaskier! I must know if your inspiration is a lady who truly lived and died loving her Witcher.”

Some sobriety came into Jaskier’s face, and Geralt’s brow knit. He didn’t care for Jaskier’s discomfort, even in small measure.

“There is no lady involved, madam,” Jaskier replied, voice steady.

Geralt took the admission like a blow to the breastbone: short and sharp and blossoming with shock. He stared at Jaskier, who did not meet his eyes.

“An affair between men?” Lorraine asked. “Why, it’s even more intriguing. You must tell us if it’s true.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together, turning their pinkness white, but then said, “It’s not _un_ true.”

Geralt was not breathing. He would be a fool to think the ballad was meant for his ears, for his heart, but as there had been a part of Lorraine that hoped for the song’s veracity, there was one in him as well.

“Come now, Master Jaskier,” Lorraine said, pouting, “that cannot be all you’ll give us. Was there a couple who inspired you? Or a muse?” She gave a gasp, clutching at Geralt. “Could there have been a Witcher you’ve loved yourself?” She spoke then to Geralt: “Could you not fall in love with Master Jaskier?”

To Geralt’s dismay—and no small measure of wonder—Jaskier’s face turned bright red. Murmurs passed through the gathered courtiers. For the first time since Geralt had known him, Jaskier did not have the suitable words right away. He was searching for them, and maybe in vain.

Geralt stepped in to spare him, but what he said did not force Jaskier’s color down.

“I do not know Master Jaskier well,” he lied, “but his person is as fine as his songs. I could fault no one for falling in love with him.”

Only then did Jaskier look at him again, and his eyes were searching, darker blue in the torchlight than they would have been under the sun.

The attention of every courtier was split between them, all frozen in expectation.

Jaskier’s voice was quiet, wavering, as he said, “You’re too kind.”

Geralt spoke as earnestly as ever he had: “Nobody would call me that. But I meant what I said.”

There was no mistaking the self-satisfaction in Lorraine anymore. She was intentionally letting the moment simmer, but then, at last, said, “I think anyone here would agree! Master Jaskier will win all our hearts with his songs.” She offered an open palm. “Please, will you play another?”

The request woke him, and he pulled his lute around to his front again, striking a chord. “As my lady commands.” And he was off again.

Geralt expected to beat a hasty retreat, but Lorraine had her claws in him and would not let go. Standing up onto the tips of her toes, she whispered into his ear. “All night he’s been telling stories of a man he fancies. Perhaps not in so many words, but there’s no hiding love when it’s so radiant. _Upon his golden eyes I set my heart,_ he sang. Open those very eyes, Geralt of Rivia, and see he offers you his heart.”

With that, she released him and went away, off to find her sunrise friends.

Geralt was left stunned and mute, standing like a rock in the flow of a stream of courtiers as they milled around him, paying him little mind. Jaskier’s performance continued on, but Geralt couldn’t listen any longer. Feeling like the great hall was closing in on him, he cut through the crowd and fled into the corridor.

* * *

Few people were about town after dark, which allowed Geralt to walk through the streets with impunity. He didn’t have his silver or iron swords, but he had a dagger in his boot and one at his waist should he run afoul of anyone or anything unsavory. He himself was unsavory by most men’s standards, and yet it was nearly every night that he had fair-faced Jaskier in his bed, having sunk to fucking a Witcher.

Geralt should have disgusted him from the start, but he never had, and what was perhaps the most tender ballad he’d ever written began with Geralt’s eyes.

Stalking the abandoned streets had done nothing to chase Lorraine’s voice from his mind. He craved a good fight, a solid risk to his life, but it wasn’t to be had that night. It left his skin tingling and breath coming too fast and shallow. He was keyed up for a battle that involved no weapons; instead it required the words he didn’t have.

_Are you offering your heart, bardling?_

He would never ask, and he wasn’t certain he could accept that heart, should it be offered. Jaskier deserved better than him—far better.

The sickle moon was high by the time he returned to the castle, passing by the guards, even if they eyed him with suspicion. He was tired, if not physically, but it was the door to Jaskier’s room he passed first, and there he stopped. He faced it, unsure, before landing three solid raps of his knuckles against the thick oak.

There came a clattering from inside, what sounded like metal hitting the floor, and a curse; unmistakably Jaskier. Shortly, the door was opened wider than was called for in the middle of the night and at the threshold stood Jaskier in unfastened trousers and a cream-colored shirt loose at the neck. His collarbones stuck out where they were exposed.

“Geralt,” he said in a rush. “Where have you _been_?”

“Walking,” was the plain, stupid reply.

Jaskier looked him up and down. He was still wearing his banquet finery, though there was mud and straw on his boots. “You just disappeared from the hall, saying nothing to anyone. I was looking for you for ages.”

Geralt said, “Hm.”

“Don’t you dare do that,” Jaskier snapped. He was angry. Geralt would not have predicted that. He pointed a finger at Geralt’s blue and gold-clad chest. “You can’t just say the things you said to me in the hall and then _disappear._ ” With an exasperated grunt, he latched onto Geralt’s shirtfront and yanked him into his room. He left Geralt to shut the door behind himself, which he did.

Jaskier was barefoot, pacing up and down the flagstone floor. There was indeed a metal goblet laying near the hearth, a splash of red outside of it reflecting the firelight. “‘Fault no one for falling in love with him,’” he said, strident. “‘Person as fine as his songs.’ What was that supposed to mean, Geralt?” He stopped and rounded on Geralt, expression wild. “ _What_?”

Geralt flagged under the assault, lost for what to tell him. With seemingly no other option, he defaulted to a returning rally of attack. “ _You_ want to know what something means? What the hell did you mean by making your song’s Witcher have eyes like mine?”

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open, his eyes wide, but then he balled his fists up into knots of fury and stamped his foot. “Because he _is_ you, Geralt! That woman wanted to know if I have a muse? Of course I do. It’s _fucking_ Geralt of _bloody_ Rivia. Pray, what other Witcher do I know?”

“It’s a song,” said Geralt, warring with both the defensive anger to match Jaskier’s and with the fiery satisfaction that apparently came with being someone’s muse. “It’s not real. It’s not true.”

“No, it’s not exactly factual,” Jaskier said, “but what would you rather I had done? Wrote something titled ‘Dear Geralt, why are you so thick that you don’t see I’m in love with you?’”

Geralt was across the room in an instant, his hands like iron bands around Jaskier’s biceps. “You’re not.”

Jaskier struggled against his hold, spitting mad. “Oh yes, I bloody am! You’re not about to tell me what I am or am not, thank you very much. I know my own mind and yes, I’m in love with you. Now, let me go, damn it!”

“No,” said Geralt, pulling him in and kissing him soundly. It wasn’t that he wanted to shut him up per se, but just then Geralt couldn’t have heard more without bursting free of his flesh and scattering in starbursts of disbelief into all the corners of the chamber. He kissed Jaskier deep and long, tasting on this tongue the red wine he’d been drinking. When he finally drew back, he asked, simply, “Why, bardling?”

Jaskier peered up at him. “Why not? You’re nice to look at; you’re built like a fortress; you’re brave, often to a fault.” He bit his lower lip as he did when he was frisky. “You’re a damn good lay.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned.

“Oh, fine. You’re no fun.” He tested Geralt’s hold on him, finding it still strong. “Will you give me my arms, please?”

Reluctant though he was to let him go at all, Geralt did, and Jaskier raised both hands to the sides of Geralt’s face. His palms and fingers were warm and very soft.

“You won’t believe it,” Jaskier said, “but you _are_ kind. You have a strong heart. I do find you beautiful, especially those fine eyes of yours.” He caressed Geralt’s cheekbone with his thumb. “My muse, my Witcher. _Geralt_. Will you let me love you?”

The elation tested the bounds of Geralt’s body even more than the shock. Every part of him was full and humming with life. He was startled to discover he was shaking.

It came out whispered and hushed, but sure as anything he’d ever said: “Yes.”

Jaskier embraced him, turning his head to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. “I’ll be good for you. Every day, every night. Whenever you want me.”

“You should have better than me,” said Geralt. “Or at least someone who can give more than a bedroll on the ground and taverns to sing in sometimes. You should stay in courts, be pampered. I can’t do that for you.”

“Haven’t I proven by now that I’m tough enough to travel with you?” Jaskier asked. “Yes, I like fine things and nice clothes and fawning courtiers, but I _love_ you.”

Geralt stroked his hair, eyes closed to take it in once more. “I should have asked for a single room,” he said.

Jaskier huffed. “Yes, you should’ve. I thought you might have been ashamed of me.”

Another warning: “Jaskier.”

“What?” he said, his breath hot on Geralt’s neck.

“I’d never be ashamed of you. If anything, it should be you who’s—”

Jaskier moved as fast as a serpent and silenced him with his fingers over his mouth. “Don’t say that. Don’t think it. You’re not shameful.” Moving his fingers away, he kissed Geralt again. “Will you do something for me tonight?”

“Anything.”

“Oh, that’s a very enticing promise,” said Jaskier with a feline grin, “but my request is simple: be inside me, fill me, make me yours.”

The blood in Geralt’s veins rushed between his legs. They’d not talked of that before, but it had hovered unspoken between them as a prospect. He wanted it now, desperately.

“Get on the bed,” Geralt said.

Jaskier slipped out of his arms and went hurriedly to the featherbed, crawling onto the soft furs that were laid across it. On his back with his head against the pillows, he said, “The oil’s in my pack.”

It was easy enough to find, and Geralt set it on the three-legged table beside the bed. He did not yet get into it. Instead, he crooked his finger at Jaskier, gesturing to the buttons on his doublet. Jaskier rose up onto his knees, a penitent before Geralt, and began to undo them.

Geralt watched as Jaskier steadily undressed him. When the doublet was open, Jaskier pushed it over Geralt’s shoulders to lay in a puddle on the floor. His shirt Jaskier pulled from his waistband, raising it over his head and mussing his hair in the process. Jaskier pressed kisses along his jaw as he tugged free the leather thong holding Geralt’s hair back. He took the time to scratch and massage Geralt’s scalp, which had Geralt as putty in his hands.

The ties of Geralt’s trousers he undid with his clean, white teeth. Both hands were required to ease the leather down Geralt’s legs, but he could only go so far from his place on the bed. Geralt stooped to remove his boots and divest himself of the trousers. His underclothes he discarded without Jaskier’s help.

Jaskier wasn’t ever far away, and as Geralt stood bare before him, he curled his fingers around Geralt’s cock and stroked. “You’re finer than any man I’ve ever lain with,” he said. “Not to bring that up. But you’re utterly stunning.” He kissed the tip of Geralt’s cock. “And you’ll stretch me so well.”

“You’ll be the end of me, bardling,” said Geralt.

“Mm,” came Jaskier’s reply. “You’re like the start of me. I was reborn when I met you, and again when you touched me for the first time. I think I’ll be born anew tonight, too.”

Geralt held him by the chin and drew him up to meet his eyes. “The things you say. A poet’s tongue.”

Jaskier grinned. “Wicked tongue.” He licked a stripe up the center of Geralt’s chest before rolling away and stripping himself of his shirt and trousers.

Upon his hands and knees he presented Geralt with exactly what he would be having. Geralt gently followed the cleft between his buttocks to his entrance. There he pressed, testing.

“The oil,” Jaskier said. “And then two fingers, if you please.”

“So much?” asked Geralt as he poured oil over his forefingers. “I thought it was only one to start.”

“And where exactly did you hear that, Sir Witcher?” Jaskier teased, looking over his shoulder and across the wing of his shoulder blade. “You’ve not shared that before.”

Geralt grumbled, “You pick things up here and there. Answer me.”

Jaskier pushed his hips back, offering, and said, “If you’re practiced enough, you needn’t start like it’s your first time. You learn to relax, to accept. For some I wouldn’t even need the fingers, but for you I think I do.”

“Is that praise?”

“For you fine cock? Yes, it is.”

Unable to avoid preening, Geralt allowed himself a half smile. It faded, though, as he set to his work, spreading oil over Jaskier and then slowly, carefully breaching him with the asked-for fingers. He earned a deep, pleased groan as he slipped into the heat and smoothness.

“ _Ah_ ,” Jaskier murmured.

“All right?” said Geralt.

“More than. You can go deeper.”

The more he pressed in, the softer Jaskier grew. But it was still tight and enticing. Geralt was sure he’d lose himself immediately when he was inside.

Jaskier lowered himself onto his forearms, changing the angle of penetration. “A third,” he said, his voice ever so slightly strained. It was by pleasure, however, and not pain.

Geralt poured more oil and added his ring finger. Jaskier stretched around him, and Geralt stared, fascinated. Jaskier’s cock was hard between his legs, but he warned Geralt not to touch him just yet.

“It’ll be over far too soon if you do that.”

Geralt acquiesced without protest. Jaskier was in the lead here.

“That’s enough,” said Jaskier. “Let me onto my back.”

“Is it like it would be with a woman?” Geralt asked. He bit his tongue at the question, but had no better way to phrase it.

“You can take me in almost every way you can take a woman,” Jaskier replied. “But for now we’ll keep it simple. Oil yourself and lie down on me.”

When Geralt was kneeling between his spread legs and their chests were flush, he paused for instruction.

“You can look if you need to,” said Jaskier, “but it’s easy enough to do by touch. Just take yourself in hand and guide it.” He lifted his hips to match where Geralt was steering his cock, seeking the right place. “There. Right there. Push.”

As easily as his fingers had slid inside him, Geralt’s cock entered. Jaskier moaned, half gasping, and clung to him.

“Are you—”

“I’m perfect, Geralt. Go on. Move.”

It was as it would have been with a woman, Geralt found: withdrawing and thrusting back in for both their pleasure. Jaskier was tight and welcoming, and the sounds he made spurred Geralt on.

If only the pretty courtiers trying to pet and charm Jaskier could see him in that moment: split open on Geralt’s cock and demanding more. When Geralt claimed things, he did so covetously; no one could share what was his. No one dared get in Roach’s saddle but him, and anyone who lay a finger on one of his swords would lose it. Jaskier had asked to be made his. In this, he would be.

“Bardling,” Geralt said between thrusts. “You’re mine.”

Jaskier pulled his mouth from Geralt’s neck, where he had been landing wet kisses. “Yes. Yours.”

Geralt grunted, nibbling Jaskier’s ear. “No hiding it. They’ll know.”

“Who will know?” Jaskier asked, his short fingernails just scraping Geralt’s back.

“ _Everyone_.”

Jaskier cried out and his spend spilled sticky and hot between them. Geralt hadn’t touched him.

“I’ll sing it,” said Jaskier, panting. “The songs I’ll write, I swear. No one will wonder.”

Geralt’s basest desire to possess burned in his belly. He couldn’t own Jaskier; he couldn’t keep others from looking or wanting him. But they would know that his smiles for them were part of the performance. When the night was over and his coin had been made, he would come to Geralt’s bed alone.

That was what put him over the edge. He drove a last time into Jaskier’s body and went rigid, filling Jaskier as the bard had wanted to be filled.

He lay across his bardling until he had recovered his breath, drawing his softening cock out of him and appreciating the glistening oil around his entrance.

“You look at me like you want to eat me up,” Jaskier said from his place on his back.

Geralt nipped the inside of his thigh. “I do.”

Jaskier laughed huskily. “Let me rest and have a cup of wine first before you devour me.”

He left Geralt on the bed, going to a basin and ewer to wipe the spend and oil from his body. Geralt picked up his shirt and used that, making Jaskier wrinkle his nose.

“It can be washed before we leave,” Geralt told him.

“I thought we were leaving tomorrow,” said Jaskier. “I was asked to play again for the queen, but I had planned to make my excuses.”

Geralt gestured him back to bed. “Play for her, if you wish to. I’m sure she’ll want to hear your ballad, and have her own minstrels taught a rendition.”

Jaskier lay down beside him, kissing his left nipple as he went. “Nobody’s likely to forget it after a Witcher appeared to sing my praises.”

“And I’ll do so again,” said Geralt. “Anywhere we go.”


End file.
